Show Me Beautiful
by Your Beating Heart
Summary: "The loyalty he shows Eren doesn't resemble the desire that a demon has for a soul, no matter how enticing it may be. What I suspect is that the moment Levi looked into Eren's eyes and saw his essence, he didn't feel lust for him," Hanji says, "but fell irrevocably in love with him." Angels&Demons [Demon Levi/Angel Eren, Demon Ymir/Angel Historia, Angel Armin/Angel Annie]
1. We Will Start Again

This story is three love stories put together: Eren and Levi, Ymir and Historia, and Armin and Annie. Eren, however, is the central character. Pretty much everything revolves around him. I switch perspective from Eren, Armin, and Historia in no particular order. This is the only chapter with Levi and Ymir's perspectives.

**WARNINGS (because of CH. 4):**

Extremely long chapters, Mild horror, mild violence/gore, mild sexual assault (is any sexual assault mild, though?), sexual themes, strong-ish language, ANGST (a lot of it)

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><p><strong>Prologue: Levi<strong>

Demons can't refuse a summoning. Once someone has raised them from the underworld, demons have to drop whatever it is that they are doing, whether it be eating, sleeping, or taking a shit, and obey the summoner. Incidentally, this summoning had been timely for Levi. He wasn't doing anything important, wiping down his blades and listening to other demonic creatures howl. The haunting sounds of eternal damnation. Levi squandered his last chance for forgiveness, but in spite of being condemned to everlasting punishment, he has no regrets. So is that, he wonders, what makes a _true_ demon? The refusal to regret, to repent? Levi isn't sorry. He will never _be_ sorry.

When Levi surfaces to his summoning, he finds himself in a dungeon. The stone floor is slick with what he initially thinks is water from a leaky pipeline, but as he looks down, he sees that it is dark, then he realizes that he is standing in blood. His eyes follow a spotty trail to a pool that has gathered around a miserable mass of a kid. His ankle is chained to the wall, and he crawls about the stone floor on his hands and knees, wearing nothing but a shabby pair of brown drawstring pants settled so low on his hips that the dimples in his lower back show.

Then Levi takes in the two white wings sprouting from his shoulders. An angel has summoned Levi. The angel's left wing, Levi sees, is crooked, entirely wrecked, held barely to his back by coagulated arteries and tangled tendons and unraveling muscle fibers. The wing joint has been hacked at severely.

The boy angel pants, hissing out breath; his skin is clammy and ashen; and his thick brown hair is clumped to his scalp. Clenched in his hand is a luminous ivory angel blade spattered with red. Its silver-white glow reflects on the boy's sheen coat of sweat like glistening dewdrops.

Levi watches him twist around, set his jaw, and chop at his wing again, making a mess of himself.

Levi sighs. "What the hell are you doing?"

Arms wobbling, the boy can't brace himself and collapses, cheek flat to the floor. "They're too heavy," he hisses. "My wings, I can't hold them up anymore."

Levi seizes the disfigured wing that is tendons away from breaking off, and finishes the task; it comes loose with a grotesque snapping noise. The boy jerks but doesn't cry out as if he doesn't feel the pain. Perhaps he doesn't. Blood spills from his shoulder blade, rolling down the curves of his back. White bone sticks out the torn, curling flesh like broken teeth.

The boy exhales. "Thanks."

Levi discards the dismembered wing. Even detached it somehow maintains grace as it floats to the ground and settles with a flourish, shedding delicate white plumes.

"You are," mutters Levi, "Eren Jaeger, the angel of hope or strength, whichever." Levi wouldn't have recognized him if not for his unique eye color: the color of the sky and the ocean, a drop of green, a drop of blue, and a drop of gray merged into a single color. "Aren't you supposed to be Heaven's Miracle and lead the angels to victory?" How can this pathetic kid be Heaven's last hope? He is too weak to raise his own wings. "Guess that's a misnomer."

Chest heaving, Eren stares up at Levi from the floor. "I want to give them everything—" He draws a breath and slides his knee under him, his chain jangling. "But I can't even lift my wings." He pushes from the ground, but his elbows lock mid-motion. He groans wordlessly and withers up.

"The other angels have sucked you dry, huh." Eren Jaeger, an angel with the ability to give others his strength while sacrificing his own, has been fully exploited and left incapacitated with no life remaining for himself, which is a pitiful existence by Levi's judgment. "You'll regenerate, won't you?"

Sweat dribbles from Eren's hairline. "Yeah."

"But they'll use you again," says Levi. "You'll be used a thousand times for all of eternity. That's your fate."

Eren says nothing, no woes or laments; complaining would be the highest offense to the Throne, and Levi draws his glimmering acrylic black dagger. "Every demon is out for your destruction, actively hunting for you, and you have voluntarily summoned the strongest demon of the underworld into your sanctuary." This prison cell, however, is hardly a sanctuary. "Do you have a death wish?"

Eren eyeballs Levi's dagger. His gaze is profoundly empty. Then Levi realizes that death is precisely what this angel desires. Eren has called the strongest demon here to slay him.

With his boot Levi toes Eren's shoulder, rolling him onto his back. "Of all the underworld creatures, I have the greatest capacity to give you what you want. You were smart to summon me." Levi flicks his dagger, and it extends into an arm-length sword. He lays the sharp point on Eren's breastbone. It pierces skin, and a trickle of blood seeps out. "Are you sure this is what you want? Think hard. I won't ask a second time."

"I can't choose a way out." Eren's rapidly heaving chest slows to steady, deep breathing, and his eyes close partway. "That's why I need you to make the choice for me."

"I see," says Levi. "Then I'll carry out what you ask of me and bring an end to your suffering." He adds pressure on Eren's chest. More blood trickles, and Eren is motionless. Waiting. Resigned. Then Levi hoists his sword in both hands to drive it cleanly through Eren's chest and cleave his soul from his body, the only way to kill an angel. Gazing deep into this angel's eyes, Levi looks into Eren's core and being, and sees an intensity of raw passion; passion that Levi can't even begin to comprehend, and he hesitates.

Angels have the purest souls, bright, kind, and selfless—the type of soul that demons kill for and lust after. This angel's soul, though, isn't close to being whole. Levi can see only glimpses of shards like shattered glass.

Levi's sword reverts back to a dagger, and he kneels in a crouch before Eren. "How about you strike a deal with me?"

Eren's eyebrows draw together. "What kind of deal?"

"I'll give you a life in exchange for"—Levi taps Eren's chest—"your soul."

"What do you mean you'll give me a life?"

"I can give you the life that you've only dreamed of, a life free of pain." Levi gestures to Eren's cuffed ankle. "These chains will no longer cage you, and your wings will no longer weigh on your back." Carefully Levi strokes Eren's lone misused wing. It has lost much of its natural luster and vibrancy. It is washed-out, the feathers worn from being handled too often by too many hands; and because so many hands know the feeling of his wings, Eren has earned himself a derogatory nickname in the underworld.

"You won't remember what you are, and you won't remember this sorry excuse for a life."

Eren's mouth is crusty and chapped. "A life free of pain, is that even possible?"

"It's not impossible for a creature of my power."

"If you can really give me a life like that, then you can take whatever you want."

Levi drops from his crouch to sit next to Eren. Angel blood seeps into his clothing like warm water. "It's settled, then." He draws Eren into his lap and settles Eren's head in the crook of his elbow. Eren's body sags, his wing flopping awkwardly on the ground, his head spilling to the side. Levi presses his hand on Eren's cheek to turn his face so that he can look upon him.

"What do you want in this life of yours?" Levi asks.

"I want to live near the ocean." The green in Eren's eyes brightens like sea foam.

"All right. What else?"

"Friends." Eren holds up his pointer and middle fingers. They tremble. "Two of them."

"Done. Anything more?"

Eren's eyelashes are dark and long, touching the skin just beneath his eyebrows as he looks into Levi's face. "Will you be there?"

Levi thinks that is a strange question and gives a silent pause. "No, I have my own task to carry out." Then he wraps his fingers around the cold familiar hilt of his demon dagger. His fingers fit flush to the grooves. "Do you trust me?"

Eren is quiet, considering his answer. "Yeah."

"That's good." Levi raises the dagger. "Because this will hurt but for a moment." He drags his fingertips over Eren's eyes, pulling his eyelids shut. "Close your eyes." He pitches his voice low, almost gentle. "And don't move."

Eren lets his mind release like he is weightless. Then the dagger enters Eren's chest, just shy of his heart—

And he wakes with a jolt, eyes flying open to cloudless blue sky. Eren sits up, disoriented.

Where is he?

The air is warm and briny, white sugar-sand sticks to his bare back, and rolling waves toss against the shore, brushing his bare toes. He knows this place: it is his home, Evermore Island, where he has spent his fifteen years of life with Mom, Dad, Mikasa, and Armin. Days spent on the beach. Sunset watching. Riding waves. The best kind of life.

Eren kneads the heel of his hand in his eye and sees that Mikasa is hovering over him. The sunlight shines from behind her, darkening her milky-white face and haloing her ink-black hair, which hangs just below her jaw.

"It's about time you woke up," she says.

"How long was I out?"

"About an hour."

"An hour is nothing." Eren folds his arms behind his head like a pillow. "I could sleep all day."

"What about the raft?"

"The raft!" Eren bounds to his feet. "We have to finish!" Eren and Mikasa, along with Armin, have spent most of their summer vacation building a raft crafted of logs and rope that they plan to sail.

"Armin and I knew you'd fall asleep, so we finished without you."

"Aw, what?" Eren frowns, sulking for a moment. He had wanted to help. "So where's Armin?" He runs his eyes along the shoreline, looking for a familiar mop of pale blond hair.

"The treehouse."

"Oooh… The treehouse." Eren grins, and Mikasa blinks at him, knowing exactly what that grin means. "Race you there," he challenges.

"You know I'll win."

"Not this time." Eren bends his knees, touching his fingertips to the sand, calves tensed, toes bouncy and ready to spring. Mikasa does the same. "On the count of three," he says.

Mikasa waits for the countdown, the sea breeze picks up, and her hair tickles her cheek. The pause is abnormally long, and in the time that it takes her to realize that Eren isn't at her side, he has made it halfway to the treehouse, his feet cranking up sand in his wake. She races after him.

It doesn't take much effort from her to catch up—she passes him and sticks out her foot in his path. He trips, crashing face-first, champing on a mouthful of beach.

"Cheater!" he shouts, spitting out sand.

She slaps the tree-trunk finish line in victory. "I'm the cheater?" Harking back to Eren's graceless crash-landing, she offers a hand to him. He takes it, and she helps him to his feet. Sand powders his unruly, dark brown hair, and she steps closer to whisk it away.

He is wearing that mischievous grin again, but this time Mikasa doesn't know what he is up to. "Hey, Mikasa," he whispers into her ear. "Race you to the top." His long fingers plaster to her face, wrapping from cheek to cheek, and his palm mashes her nose. He shoves her aside, and she stumbles. Then he is off again.

Eren flies up the steps winding the trunk. How this treehouse ended up here, Eren doesn't know. Sometimes it is as if Eren's memory has been walled. If he tries too hard to remember something, his mind will reach a blockage. Eren reaches the doorway, which lacks an actual door, and ducks inside.

A straw awning provides shade and a roof for rainy days, and tropical print towels drape the windows as makeshift curtains. There is an open, flat deck—Eren's favorite part of the treehouse—that overlooks the beach. A rope tied to a higher branch hangs just beyond the deck, useful for making a hasty descent to ground level.

Armin is sitting inside with his back rested on the wall and his legs pulled up, leafing through a book propped on his thighs. His nose is slightly sunburnt and beginning to peel, and his chin-length blond hair has sun-bleached streaks.

"Armin, mark this as the day that I, Eren Jaeger, beat Mikasa Ackerman to the top of the treehouse."

Armin smiles. "Should I also include that you won dishonestly?"

Eren feigns an indignant look. "Why would you assume something like that?"

"I wouldn't put it past you." Armin returns his attention to his book.

"Jeez, your judgment of my character is very flattering." Then he drops beside him and sits with one leg bent at the knee. "What'cha reading?" He peeks past Armin's leg at the dense book.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go for it."

Armin speaks slowly, thinking through his words. "If you were given the power to take away someone else's pain by bearing it yourself, would you do it?"

Eren shrugs. "I dunno, probably. Why?"

Armin displays his book for Eren. The cover is embossed with the title _Mythology of the Divine and the Accursed._ "There's a legend about an angel with that ability. They call her the angel of sacrifice. She's said to be the most beautiful angel and the kindest. But because of her ability, her existence is filled with pain. I think it's tragic to exist for the sake of other people."

"It's her choice. She doesn't have to take on anyone's pain if she doesn't want to."

"Don't you think it's a little more complex than that?"

"I, um—" An ache rips through Eren's back. He reaches over his shoulder and kneads his upper trap where tension has locked up his muscle. "Don't ever fall asleep on the beach. Take my word for it. My back is _killing_ me." He winces and rolls his head from side to side in an attempt to loosen the knot.

Armin shuts the book and sets it aside. "While you were sleeping, I thought of a way to decide who'll be captain." For the past week, they have been trying to decide who will be the head of their raft.

Mikasa finally enters the treehouse, stooping beneath the roof overhang. "What did you come up with?"

"I asked Eren's mom to hide a flag somewhere on the island. I figured whoever finds it could be designated captain."

"In that case," declares Eren, rising to his feet, "get used to calling me Captain Eren."

Armin grins. "You have to find the flag first."

"And no cheating," Mikasa adds sternly.

"How would I even cheat this one? It's foolproof." Eren goes through a staged stretch routine and theatrically warms up his muscles, shrugging his shoulders and doing a few exaggerated lunges. Mikasa shakes her head, and Armin's eyes brighten with silent amusement. "Alright, Armin. Do the count off, since it's your idea."

"Okay." They line up, and Mikasa has her eye on Eren, closely watching in case he decides to pull any fast ones. He quirks his brows at her.

"One."

Mikasa is still watching him.

"Two."

Armin narrows his eyes at the doorless doorway.

"Three."

Armin and Mikasa take off to the entrance, and Eren spins the opposite way towards the open deck. Hurdling from the edge, Eren snatches the rope and swings onto the beach Tarzan-style. The extra momentum gives him a running start, and his flag hunt begins.

Evermore Island is small and crescent-shaped without many houses. For the most part, the place is uninhabited and isolated. There are few places to look. And the first place that Eren chooses to investigate is a little cavern towards the middle of the island. A brook winds its way through the trees, and sunlight dapples through lucid green leaves as Eren picks his way through dense foliage to the cave. A melodic trickling sound like a loose faucet comes from ahead. He follows it and encounters a crack in the earth like a mouth or doorway leading to dark places: it is the cave. A thin stream of water trickles over the cavern's mouth and into a shallow pool that is so clear and flat, it reminds Eren of a pane of glass.

Eren ducks around the trickling water, slipping through the door-like crack and stepping onto wet rock. Wary of his footwork on the slippery stone, he carefully steps farther into shadows. The walls are narrow like a tunnel that grows narrower the higher up it goes, steepling into a point. He presses his hands against the damp walls, feeling his way deeper into the dark, dank cave.

The tunnel makes a turn, then the walls abruptly widen and wrap around into a dead-end, circular room. Grasses and mosses bud from the stone like green fuzz, and moisture hanging in the air slicks Eren's skin and hair. Light pours from behind Eren, making his silhouette reach long and thin out in front of him—reaching to a pair of brown shoes.

A tall blond man is already standing in the heart of the cave, dressed in a navy blue polo tucked into his khakis. His hands are casually stuffed in his pockets, and he smiles at Eren, displaying a row of white teeth. He is the type of man that Eren hopes he will grow into one day: so broad-shouldered that the seams of his shirt pull taut, with a square, chiseled jaw and deep-set, blue eyes.

"Is this what you're looking for?" The man has a deep, pleasing voice and takes his right hand out of his pocket, offering a piece of yellow material that Eren recognizes.

"Hey, yeah! That's it!" Eren steps closer and reaches for the flag. He grabs the material—and the man's hand suddenly closes around Eren's wrist; Eren recoils, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. But the man only smiles and stuffs his hand back in his pocket like he didn't do anything, and for a moment Eren wonders if he imagined it. "Thanks," Eren says, but his voice is quiet and guarded.

The man is still smiling, and it is a nice smile, one that Eren feels that he knows and can trust. "May I ask you a question?"

Eren is unsure if he wants to answer any questions this man has. He wrings the flag in his hands and recites his "go for it" line, but it lacks the enthusiasm he showed Armin.

"Has this life been kind to you?"

Of the questions that Eren thought he would be asked, that wasn't one of them. He has to collect his thoughts before he can give an answer. "Uh. Sure, yeah. Can't complain. The beach is nice, and it's quiet here." This man, Eren thinks, must be a homebuyer checking out the real estate, which is why he was in the cave and why he has asked about Eren's island life. "Are you thinking about moving here or something? The island, I mean. Not the…"—Eren scratches his head—"cave."

The man is looking at Eren too hard, and Eren frowns, feeling himself bristle defensively. "Your eyes are bright. I haven't seen you look that way in a very long time.""

Eren feels a jolt of surprise. "Wait, I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"No, I don't suppose we do."

Eren's stomach is uneasy. "Well, it was nice meeting you, sir," he offers, though they hadn't exchanged names. Cautiously, he doubles back toward the mouth of the cave, without tearing his eyes from the man. "Thanks for the flag…again." The man doesn't follow. He stays in place in the middle of the room, his hands still in his pockets, still smiling, but his teeth aren't showing anymore. He drops a brisk nod, and then Eren rounds the tunnel's corner.

He breaks into a run to the treehouse, looking over his shoulder every once in a while, half expecting the man to be hard on his heels. But there is no one behind him. Eren sighs, wondering if he is being paranoid.

The man's question plays over in Eren's head.

_Has this life been kind to you?_

Did Eren live an unkind life before? No. That is crazy. Right? A person only gets one life. One chance. He clenches the flag in his hand and throws out the ridiculous thought.

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><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Eren's dreams are filled with unfamiliar faces that he knows, places that he can't remember but has spent years there, voices that he has heard many times but is hearing them for the first.

And when he wakes he can only remember these three: the weight of the world on his back, blood on his skin like sweat, and a pair of eyes keen as blades.

Tonight is a bit different. In Eren's dream he is being moved into his new sanctuary. It is underground, in the shadows, where the air is chilly and moist. The door is barred with iron like a prison cell, and inside there is only a meager cot squashed against a stone wall; otherwise it is bare.

"This is," mumbles Eren, "a dungeon. Have I done something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything wrong," says a deep baritone voice.

A blond man dressed in a white button-down is standing next to Eren. Eren knows this man is Erwin Smith, one of the most respected commanders of Heaven's army.

A shackle with a long chain is bolted to the wall, and Erwin picks it up. It rattles in his grip. He gestures to the cot. "Sit down." Reluctantly Eren does as he is told, and Erwin takes Eren's leg, snapping the shackle around his ankle. The metal is heavy in more ways than one.

"Will I have to stay here alone?" Eren's voice sounds distant to his own ears as if he hadn't been the one who spoke, like it had been a stranger.

"Yes." Erwin's steel blue eyes are ostensibly hardened but mask something unknowable and softer. Eren thinks it might be pity. "I offer you my sincerest apologies, but I cannot defy the Throne's orders."

"The Throne? Why would He…" Eren moves his leg and his new chain scrapes the floor.

Erwin squeezes his shoulder. "I know it's difficult for you to understand, but I promise this is in your best interest."

"If it's what the Throne wants, I won't argue."

Erwin smiles but it is small. "I consider you my friend, Eren Jaeger. Whatever it is that you need, I'll do everything in my power to get it to you."

Eren stares hard at Erwin, trying to remember what he did, why the Throne would lock him up. He stares so hard that the image of Erwin's face becomes watered-down and blurry. The blue steel in Erwin's eyes fades into empty black sockets like the stripped face of a skull. Then Eren feels a gust of warmth on the back of his neck.

"…en."

"...Eren." A man's voice is muttering directly in Eren's ear, and Eren hears himself groan groggily as if his own body is a world away.

"I need for you to wake up." The voice is placid and slow. Something slides against the side of Eren's face—a hand—holding the back of his neck. Eren's skin flushes with electric static.

"The gates of the underworld are open; do you understand?" This person's hand angles Eren's face upward. Eren's head sinks against the pillow. Someone hovers just above his face; Eren can sense it, though his eyelids are stuck together as if they are sewn shut. "That's why I need for you to open your eyes." It is a low murmur near Eren's mouth. "Wake up. You're wasting time."

Finally Eren tears his eyes open, finding himself staring into emptiness. Darkness concentrates about him, heavy and purplish. He looks out his bedroom window and sees a cluster of low, creeping storm clouds. Dry lightning cracks within them like pulsating blood vessels. Everything is murky and bruised violet; Eren's heart hammers and his stomach drop uncertainly. Every nerve in Eren's body screams that there is something very, very wrong. In a cold sweat he kicks off his sheets and blankets, a sticky tangle around his legs, and slides off the bed.

Heaps of clothes are strewn on his floor, and he picks out a pair of jeans that he hopes are clean, throws them on, and tiptoes to the door. The house creaks and groans eerily, as Eren makes his way through the hallway, which seems much longer at night than it does during the day. When he reaches the stairs, he tries his best not to make any noises on his descent.

Family portraits hang on the wall—Mom and Dad with Eren beaming between them. Mikasa and Armin are present for a few of them, too. As Eren's eyes slide past the pictures, he dimly notes how happy everyone looks, then he reaches the bottom step and turns down another hallway leading to his parents' bedroom. This hall is bare, the walls white and stark. They should move some of the pictures framed above the staircase here. He takes the handle of the bedroom door, pulling, and swings it open.

The room is empty in every sense of the word. His parents aren't here. Nothing at all is here. No bed. No tables. No furniture at all. Cobwebs cumulate in the corners of the room, and a layer of dust blankets the wood floor. The air is musty and stale, like it has been abandoned for a long time, and Eren staggers back a step, mind spinning. His knees are weak.

"Mom?" His voice shakes. "Dad?" Dead silence. Empty silence. The sound of being all alone. Eren grabs the door for support. His legs are rubber. He breathes hard. A panic attack? His heart has flown up to his throat.

Forcing the panic down, he dashes back to the stairs—and freezes. The family portraits have vanished; the steps are decayed, having crumbled in; and stifling, dust spores fleck the air.

"Mom! Dad!" he calls again, louder, feeling like his child self, caught in a terrible nightmare and scared out of his wits.

She will come—Mom will come rushing up the stairs to save him from this dream, like she used to do when he was eight years old. Closing his eyes, Eren waits for her, pleading for her to hurry. He opens his eyes. She isn't there. He is on his own. And his home falls apart.

The roof implodes, raining rubble and wood chips. Then the walls peel away, layer-by-layer, shedding like skin. The steps of the staircase burst inward, convulsing as if an earthquake has torn through. His home melts, his life melts, right before his eyes, and Eren scrabbles backwards, his shoulders hitting the front door. It caves into itself, and Eren trips over the perished sawdust, finding himself outdoors.

Turning around, Eren is faced with fierce winds that whip at him, and his eyes tear. He tosses an arm over his face as a shield, fighting to march forward, as storm clouds roil in the sky, rolling closer to land.

There is a flicker of white—Eren peeks past his elbow, then pauses in his tracks. "A-Armin!" Eren has the absurd urge to throw his arms around Armin, but something keeps him motionless.

Armin's blond hair and clothes fluster in the chaotic winds, and against the inky backdrop, his skin seems to give off a pale, ethereal luminescence, shimmering like a thin mist. But that isn't what makes Eren draw his breath short. Two giant wings extend from Armin's back, angled and tucked, curving around him. The tips almost touch the ground. Thinking himself insane, Eren pinches his own arm; his skin welts, and Armin still has wings. Eren stares at them unable to look away.

"Eren…" Armin's face is tight as if his insides are being twisted out of shape. His wings quiver, then Armin hurries towards Eren and snatches his wrist. "We have to get out of here."

The only thing Eren can sputter is, "You have wings!"

"I—" Cutting off short, Armin whirls around, raising a glowing white knife in his hand. It sheers off a similar slashing black blade, showering sparks. Armin's eyes go round. "Mikasa!"

Mikasa's hair falls over her face like a curtain. Eren can hardly make out her mouth, which is turned down steeply, as if she has swallowed something foul. "Armin…" Her black hair slips further over her face, as she bows her head. Eren can't see her eyes. "I think of you as family, but I won't let you take Eren." Their daggers locked, Mikasa's hands tremble—and she pushes Armin back on his heels.

"Stop, Mikasa!" Eren shouts. "What are you doing?"

Short of breath and wild-eyed, Armin struggles to keep Mikasa's blade from piercing his chest. His arms shake from the effort. "I know what you're thinking," he says, his voice warbling. "You think I'm taking him to the Covenant—that's not it, though! If he falls into their hands, I'll never see him again." Mikasa falters, and Armin lowers his dagger. His arms fall limp at his sides. "And I can't lose my best friend."

"You'd betray your kind to protect Eren?"

Armin has gone pale. "Wouldn't you?" Then he and Mikasa share an understanding that Eren is left out of. There is a lot that Eren is being excluded from, such as why and how Armin has wings bulging from his back—wings of which Mikasa didn't blink twice at.

"I don't know what's happening," Eren blurts. "I'm dreaming. I have to be." Armin and Mikasa turn to him, as if they had forgotten he was there. "Armin has wings!" he exclaims, wondering if he is the only one that can see them. Reaching out, Eren touches the white feathers. He feels cool silk on his fingertips for a split-second before Armin jumps back, his face flaming.

"Eren!" he splutters in shock. "That's not—you really shouldn't touch!"

"Why not?"

Armin's face turns mysteriously redder, and Mikasa takes both of their wrists, tugging them in the direction of the shoreline. "We're wasting time."

A chain of incoherent thoughts storms Eren's mind. Too many questions, he becomes tongue-tied. Somehow, though, he manages one: "Where are we going?"

"The raft's near the pier. We'll sail as far as we can from the island," Mikasa says. "If we're lucky, it'll be far enough.

"But what about my parents? They're—"

"You don't have parents," Mikasa interrupts. "Everything that you think you know—your memories—throw them out. It's all meaningless to you now."

The breath is knocked out of Eren like he has been kicked in the gut. "What are you saying? I don't…understand."

"You can't just drop something like that on him!" says Armin. "You should have waited to tell him!"

"I'm sorry, but we don't have time to ease him into the truth." She hides behind her hair again. "I'm really sorry, Eren. I'm sorry you had to find out like this."

Eren's mind has gone completely blank. He runs, feeling like the whole world is crumbling under each step, that he will fall through. He doesn't understand. What is real, then? A part of Eren—and not a small part—believes that he is stuck in a nightmare. Will Mom wake him up? Will she _please?_

Abruptly Mikasa stops and throws her arms out in from of Armin and Eren, keeping them from continuing on. The ocean violently rocks. Waves crash like thunder on the shore, dragging grit and sand back out to sea. Then a foul stench of decay permeates the air, making Eren gag.

From out of the whitecaps, ten or more abnormally huge wolves appear, growling and baring finger-length fangs. Their eyes smolder bright yellow, and their bodies are mostly hairless except for small patches of grungy, matted fur dripping with seawater. Their skins are sickly gray and decomposed, sunken into their bodies between bones, clinging to every joint, rib, and vertebrae like plastic wrap. Some are missing chunks of flesh, so pieces of their skeletons are exposed. One wolf is missing its entire side, its ribcage showing disturbingly; Eren can see through its ribs to its black, shriveled organs.

"What _are_ those?" This is definitely a nightmare!

Mikasa brandishes her black dagger, tapering her eyes. "Hellhounds," she hisses. She lets go of their wrists and flips her hand. Her dagger flares into a sword, and Eren gapes, startled by it. "Armin, get Eren to safety. I'll catch up."

Obeying Mikasa's order, Armin grabs Eren's hand, pulling him into a sprint down the beach.

"We can't just leave her!" Eren protests, turning over his shoulder for glimpse of Mikasa. But it is too dark to see even his own footsteps trailing behind him.

"Trust her! She knows what she's doing!"

Doing an about-face, Eren matches Armin's fleeting strides, never letting go of his hand because he is afraid that he might lose Armin if he does.

Then Armin stops them short. A growling hellhound lurks in their path; their hands detach. Moving in front of Eren protectively, Armin spreads his wings to their full span and wields his white dagger without a shred of confidence in his posture. "If something happens, and I can't…" Armin's voice is thin, and his wings wilt. "Anyway, keep running."

"Shut up." Eren is outraged that Armin would _dare_ suggest he abandon him. "I won't leave you. That's that."

"But—"

"_Armin!"_ Eren's voice is like a snarl. "Forget it. I'm not leaving!"

Armin's wings lift higher. "…Okay." A shudder runs from each wingtip to the base. Then Armin draws them both back, whipping them forward in a strong beat. His feet rise above the ground a little, and the force stirs up a gust of wind that causes a wave of sand to lash over the hellhound. It harshly sneezes and tosses its head, whimpering and whining.

Then its coughing fit subsides, it blindly charges, and Armin is neither strong enough to fight nor quick enough to get out of the way. It knocks him on his back—and he thumps hard on the beach, his head hitting a rock in just the right way that it is lights-out instantly. Armin's eyes reel, his wings recede within his back, and the hellhound opens its jaws, thick drool dribbling from its fangs—

And Eren tackles it before its teeth can clamp down on Armin's neck. They go tumbling in the dunes, and Eren slips and slides in loose sand, scrambling for the beast. Catching it around the throat, he crushes it, wrestling and rolling downhill.

Sand flies into Eren's eyes and mouth; he blinks pins and snorts dirt. The hellhound struggles, violently thrashing and snapping its knifelike teeth—and Eren squeezes, huffing out a desperate noise. He wraps his legs around its waist, using his whole body to strangle it. He pulls his forearm to himself, closing his elbow until the beast howls, he hears a _pop!,_ and it stops moving.

Eren breathes fast. Adrenaline surges in his veins, making his head buzz. He falls onto his back, letting the hellhound's corpse spill from his arms. It lies in the sand next to him for a moment, then its skin starts folding in on itself, sizzling like water on a hot stove, melting to powder. And Eren doesn't question it because, at this point, a vanishing dead wolf is the least unbelievable phenomenon he has witnessed in a matter of twenty minutes. If he feels anything at all, it is relief—until he hears growling. Lots of growling. Menacing, ominous, hair-raising growling.

Eren shoots upright, ramrod straight—facing a wall of fangs glinting in the moonlight, eyes yellow as piercing jewels. A pack of panther-sized, hellhounds, twice as many as before, stalk towards Eren from the water's edge, pawing readily at the beach. Their ears are flat, their skeletal tails down.

Then a white glow catches Eren's eye—Armin's blade! It fell from his hand when he was knocked down. Eren gauges the beasts, shoring up for a life-or-death lunge in his last chance to save Armin and himself. He shifts his legs beneath him, crouching, balancing on the balls of his feet. Breathing in, he summons all his strength and speed. He says a silent little prayer: _God, help me. _When he receives no answer, Eren knows that he can depend only on himself. He launches for the knife.

The hellhounds spring, and Eren takes up the dagger, lifting it, just as the leading hellhound's jaws come champing down.

A blade rips through its skull before it can tear off Eren's hand—but Eren hadn't moved; Armin's blade is motionless in his grip.

A black sword decapitates the hellhound, spraying blackish blood. Then the sword neatly shears through another beast, slicing it up the middle. A person has emerged from out of nowhere, clad in a black leather jacket. Eren squints through the murky night and makes out a man with dark hair that has been shaven at the neck. This man pulls out a dagger in his left hand, and it sprouts into a sword that matches the one in his right. He grips his black twin swords loosely.

The hellhounds' sparse patches of fur bristle straight up. They foam and drool, lapping their tongues over their lips, as they yap. The man sweeps his eyes over the throng of beasts. "So noisy…" he mutters.

"Don't worry," Eren says, "they'll probably claw out our eardrums." Realizing that this is it, they are going to die, Eren shuffles in reverse and withdraws to Armin's side, pulling Armin's head into his lap. "Then they'll eat our faces, most likely. So goodbye horrible smell." He coughs out a curt laugh.

"Or," says the man, "I'll slice up their rotting flesh and send them back to Hell." The firm certainty and self-assurance throws Eren. He starts to think that this next minute might not be his last. This guy sounds like he knows what he is doing.

Eren sees a flicker of blue, then another flicker—sparks like jagged, sporadic bolts of lightning crackle around the man's hands, and his hair and clothes stir as if a sea breeze has gushed over him, but Eren knows that it hasn't because the air is strangely static.

Then, all at once, the hellhounds jump—and the man raises his swords, blue lightning shooting from his fingertips. A burst of wind churns sand and fur and clothing, spiraling out from the man. He moves incredibly fast, faster than Eren's eyes can register. His swords are dark blurs, blue bolts like electricity flashing around them. A hellhound is slammed with a bolt—it soars, thudding in the dunes, twitching and seizing, then crumpling to powder.

The man catches a hound up the throat, gutting it, and decomposing entrails tumble out. Three angry hellhounds charge his back—he spins, taking out all three in one smooth strike. He twirls his blades, adjusting the right one in his hand the wrong way; he makes it look natural.

The man severs through beast after beast easily like killing hellhounds has been built into his muscle memory. In seconds their numbers are halved. Inky blood splashes on the shore, washing it slick and black, and smearing the man's boots. Eren picks up Armin's blade, gripping the hilt tightly.

As soon as Eren resolves to help fight, fire flares inside him, and the dagger slips from his hand. His shoulders _burn_. Groaning, he folds over Armin, face-planting into Armin's chest. Eren winds an arm across himself, dragging his fingers down his left shoulder blade. He thinks that he can feel movement under his skin like contracting muscle and dislocating bone. Something swells in Eren, ballooning from his back—a shout tears from his throat.

"Calm down," the man says, as he drives one of his swords between a hellhound's ribs. "You don't need to fight. That's my job." He wrenches his blade, and the beast's ribcage breaks apart with a _crack!_

Eren breathes harder. "I can help!" If Eren doesn't fight, what good is he? The burning in Eren's shoulders becomes a sharp, intense pang like someone is jabbing him with a red-hot iron rod. "_Ah!_" He gasps for air. Eren's body is breaking to pieces!

He grabs up the white glowing dagger again.

"Eren." At the sound of his name, Eren snaps his head up. The man is looking at him with eyes that faintly gleam metallic silver: the color of a blade. "You can rely on me."

The last hellhound leaps at the man. Its snout is rotted to bone and needle teeth with an empty gap where its tongue should be, and the man thrusts his sword right through the gap, twisting, shattering bone. The beast dissolves, and the man's swords retract into daggers that he replaces into the straps that buckle his waist beneath his leather jacket.

He turns to Eren. "Are you okay?"

The burning in Eren's back has abated, and he slowly brings himself to a sitting position. "Yeah. But Armin…" Dried blood cakes Armin's scalp.

"He'll be fine." The man bends down and moves Armin from Eren's lap, easily draping Armin's body over his shoulder; Armin's arms and legs dangle like a ragdoll's. The man straightens up—and that is when Eren notices that he is a short man, smaller than Armin even.

Eren hauls himself to his feet, dusting off his jeans. "Thanks. You saved our lives." A flash of dark movement, and Eren instantly tightens his fists, spinning—

"Eren." Mikasa's clothes are in shreds, black blood splashed on her skin as she throws her arms around him in an embrace. "You're okay."

"Yeah, because of—" Eren looks at the man, waiting for a name.

But he doesn't offer one. "Hellhounds are the least of our problems. Angels are the real headache."

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue: Ymir<strong>

Ymir is annoyed. Someone has summoned her, waking her from her nap. Yawning, Ymir portals to the location of her summoner and arises in a dim room, illumined only by the pale moonlight that pours in from a long window. Ymir takes a good look at the place. It is a bedroom of sorts, furnished with a grand four-poster bed and an antique-looking vanity table embossed with floral framework. But Ymir's summoner is on the shag carpet floor, shrunk in the corner of the room.

A girl appearing roughly Ymir's age, fifteen or sixteen, has her back pressed against the wall, curled into herself, her long blond hair cascading loose around her. Velvety moonlight brightens her fine skin and hair, and she wears a white gossamer nightgown—a short, flimsy thing that Ymir can see skin through—with shimmering chiffon sleeves that fall off her shoulders. The top rests low on her chest, showing her delicate collarbones.

"Aren't you Historia, the angel of sacrifice?" Historia's wings are receded into her back, but even without her wings, her beauty gives away her true form. Ymir doesn't move from her place in the center of the room. "Do you value your life so lightly that you would summon a creature like me into your sanctuary?"

Slowly Historia lifts her head. Her golden hair tumbles over her face, and her sleeves slip lower on her arms. "You're Ymir, the demon of deception and manipulation."

"Correct." Ymir folds her arms on her chest. "And why am I here?"

"I want to make a request."

"Let me guess, you want me to take your pain away." Ymir rolls her eyes. "I can't do that. It's not in my power. Your very existence is the source of your pain. If you want to put an end to it"—Ymir grins spitefully—"well, you'd have to put an end to your existence, wouldn't you?"

"I know," says Historia. "But that's not what I want." She pulls her legs closer to her chest, and her small nightgown sidles higher. "What I want is for you to love me."

Ymir blinks. "Excuse me?"

Fire rises in Historia's cheeks, and her head drops to her kneecaps again. "I want you to…" She cuts herself short, realizing how ludicrous she sounds.

And Ymir wants to laugh. She really does. Instead she offers a piece of advice—cold, threatening advice. "_Never_ toy with a demon." This angel has wasted Ymir's time, and that is unforgivable by Ymir's terms.

Historia is urgent. "You don't know what it's like being an angel without a partner. I need someone. _Anyone_."

"What are you on about?" Ymir narrows her eyes at Historia. "You're the goddess of the angels. Every one of those idiot angels is in love with you—yet you're not satisfied? That's a little vain if you ask me."

"They don't care about me," Historia says. "They're in love with my power because I can bear their pain for them and heal their wounds." And Ymir believes that Historia is probably right. "But each day it feels like my bones are glass." She shrinks tighter. "It hurts." Her expression is empty, which Ymir finds unfitting for a pretty angel girl like Historia. "I realize my request is strange, and your love doesn't have to be authentic. Lying is what you're good at; just make me believe that you care about me. That's all I require."

"You would sell your soul," Ymir says, skeptical, "for a lie?"

"Yes."

Ymir stares, then finally shrugs. "What the hell." She slants her mouth. "I'd be an idiot _not_ to take that request." She squats in front of Historia and pushes her hair from out of her face. She has liquid eyes like blue tears, full lashes rimming them.

"You have a deal, Miss Goddess." Then Ymir tucks a finger beneath Historia's chin. "But first you'll forget this ever happened. You won't remember this night. We'll start over." Then she draws Historia into a kiss, sealing the contract.


	2. A Sacred Heart

This story is not religious in any way.

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

There is the sound of a quiet groan. It has come from Armin, and his wings reflexively unfurl from his back like bright white scrolls. In an instant Eren and Mikasa are at his side, helping him to stand, and the man tosses Armin off his shoulder, positioning him upright. Armin rocks as if the ground is moving beneath his feet.

Eren clamps his hands on Armin's shoulders and steadies him. "You okay?" But Armin, in a daze, doesn't reply.

Wincing, Mikasa gently brushes Armin's hair back from his forehead. "You have a welt on your head."

"I'm fine." Armin shrugs off Eren's hands and shies from Mikasa's touch. His eyes rapidly bat, as he shakes off the aftermath of his blackout. Then he brings them to focus on Eren. "Are you feeling okay?"

Eren clicks his tongue. "I'm not the one who got KO'd."

Color surfaces in Armin's cheeks. He could be embarrassed or frustrated or angry. Eren can't tell which. "I'm sorry that I wasn't any help." Eren still can't tell if Armin is embarrassed or frustrated or angry. For all Eren knows, he could be all three.

Eren is about to tell Armin that he shouldn't worry but is interrupted.

"Levi."

At the sudden voice—a voice that is dimly familiar—Eren, Mikasa, and Armin jump and spin around. The small man with the bizarre silver eyes, however, has his boots planted. He turns over his shoulder nonchalantly, muttering in placid monotone, "You took your time."

The blond man Eren met in the cave stands at the water's edge. His brown shoes seem to repel the waves. Not a drop hits them. And his deep-set eyes are unbending, like they are made of solid blue steel.

Lowering to a knee, Armin bows, and his wings touch the beach. "Commander Erwin."

Commander Erwin, as Armin has called him, sets a patient gaze upon Armin. "It isn't like you to disobey orders, Armin Arlert."

Armin bows his head even lower. His longish sun-bleached hair falls around his face. "I know, sir."

Coming to his defense, Mikasa steps in line with Armin's side and puts her hand on his shoulder. "He's been nothing but a true friend to Eren. Surely you can show him mercy."

Erwin looks at her, not unkindly. "I know of you, Mikasa Ackerman. You have heart. Return to the academy with us."

Mikasa doesn't get to shoot down the invitation herself because the silver-eyed man, Levi, does it for her—"Don't hold your breath." He whips out his daggers and holds them with lazy poise at his thighs. "They're not going anywhere with you." Static crackles.

"How long, Levi?" Erwin's tone is mild. "How long do you think you can protect Eren all on your own? Already hellhounds were able to ferret him out. It won't be much longer before real danger finds him."

"Other than you, you mean."

"He belongs with his kind; you know that. If you allow us to take him, I can assure you he will find sanctuary. The academy's walls are impervious to creatures of the underworld."

Levi's knuckles blanch around the hilts of his daggers. "As I recall, it was your kind that abused his power to start with."

Levi is a stark contrast with Erwin: a V-shaped jaw, straight and thin brows, a fine nose. Somehow, though, even with his trim structure, he is no less intimidating. They stare each other down, Erwin like steel, Levi like blades. Silence. Tensions rising. Neither one falters. A cool wind glances over them, rustling Levi's hair across his droopy eyelids. Then the intense stare down breaks, for Erwin suddenly looks to the sky as if his name has been called; they follow his line of sight.

The bruised sky lightens like daybreak peeking above the horizon. Yellow rays streak over the ocean and slice the churning storm clouds. Dawn already? It can't be. The night has barely begun. Eren squints in the distance where the ocean and sky meet.

Figures take shape near the clouds, blotted specks in an aura of light, gliding closer. Then Eren makes out long, graceful wings catching the breeze off the ocean, and then the outlines of people appear under those wings. _Angels?_ Eren feels his jaw go slack as five angels perch on the beach: four men and one woman. Their illumined aura goes dark, except for their wings, which emit a pure white shimmer.

"You found him!" an auburn-haired female says. She is small, and her eyes are on Eren. She smiles with her whole face. "After all this time."

"Don't tell me you doubted the commander, Petra," says an ashy-haired man. He wears a black leather jacket, and his hair is shaven at the neck. Eren looks at Levi, then back at the man, then back at Levi, wondering if this is some kind of new fad—black leather jackets and shaved necks. "Where's your faith?"

"Shut up, Oluo," Petra snaps, with an unexpectedly sharp tongue. "You know I never had doubts."

Two men—one with a blond ponytail and the other with a cowlick standing up in the back of his brown hair—put their fists on their chests in salutes. "Commander Erwin," they recite together, and Erwin offers them a nod of his head.

The last man, the tallest of the bunch, has a mop of shapeless hair, the color of honey mustard—a lazy style that Eren has seen surfer guys with. His hair bounces, as he suddenly whips his head to the side, slitting his eyes at Levi.

As if time has lagged, Levi's hair and clothes sway slowly, suspended about him like he has entered a gravitational anomaly. Sparks flicker about his right hand.

"No, don't!" cries Petra, her hand thrown out in front of her. "_Levi!_"

But it is too late. A jagged bolt of blue lightning shoots at Erwin, and Erwin doesn't have time to jump out of the way. The bolt strikes his chest, and he crumples to his knees, aftershocks of blue voltage tearing through him. Then, like a shadow, Levi emerges behind Erwin, sharply wrenching his arm behind him, keeping him in kneeled. The angels don't have a chance to react; he is too quick, plunging two of his fingers in Erwin's muscle like a nail, under his shoulder blade.

The surfer-looking man, who also has a wispy mustache and beard that Eren thinks he should just shave off, jumps forward, gripping a white glowing dagger identical to Armin's. Levi shoots him a threatening look like unsheathed knives. "Stay where you are." Blue sparks hiss from his fingertips.

"Stand down, Mike," Erwin orders.

Raising a brow, Levi waits for Mustache Mike to obey the command. With seemingly much effort, Mike tucks his blade inside his green cargo jacket, and Levi returns his attention to Erwin. Even kneeled, the top of Erwin's head reaches Levi's chest, which could either mean Erwin is a fairly tall man, or Levi is remarkably small. Perhaps both.

Bright red blood oozes around Levi's fingers, knuckle-deep in Erwin's muscle. "How does it feel to have my fingers in your wing?" Levi sounds bored. "It's painful, I'm sure."

Mike makes an agitated grunt, stepping forward again. Then Ponytail and Cowlick clutch Mike's arms, locking him in place.

"Stop it!" Petra shouts at Levi. "You're being cruel!"

Mikasa frowns. "You know angel wings are delicate."

Levi ignores them. "What's with angels and their wings, anyway?" He twists his fingers deeper in Erwin's muscle, and Erwin locks his jaw. "You act like they're something treasurable, but you know that little shit over there?" Levi turns his chin at Eren. "He chopped his off. So they can't be that great, can they?"

Eren had wings?

Levi's metallic eyes sweep their faces, moving from angel to angel—they stiffen straight—until they slide to Erwin. "Or maybe," he mutters, a sudden gravel entering his voice, "the lot of you drove him to it."

"It's true." Erwin's temples are moist, and he sounds strained. "We're to blame. Because of us, he suffered and sought out the Accursed. We failed as his comrades."

"Bet you're really feeling sorry," says Levi impassively, "now that my fingers are in your wing."

"Wait," breaks in Eren. "You're hurting him because of me?"

Levi minds Eren a brief glance from the corner of his eye. "Not really." He digs his fingers around, twisting them like a key; Erwin's jaw muscles contract, perspiration running down his face; and even though Levi's features are unreadable, Eren thinks that Levi is enjoying himself.

Eren clenches his hands at his sides. "Mr. Levi—or whoever you are—you don't need to hurt anyone." Eren surprises himself with the hardness of his own tone. At first Levi doesn't react, and Eren thinks that he is going to be ignored like Mikasa and the female angel.

Then Levi roughly jerks his hand back, Erwin convulses, and Levi's fingers are thickly smeared with red. Looks like paint. He makes a disgusted face and wipes his fingers clean on his jacket. Wet smudges streak the leather. Levi scowls, clicking his tongue on his teeth.

Relieved, Erwin deeply inhales, color returning to his face, then he turns around slowly, meeting eyes with Eren, who has drifted closer. Eren speaks first. "I don't know who you are, but I feel like we're friends. You were with me in that dark place."

Erwin's bold eyebrows rise. "What place do you mean?"

"The dungeon." The mere word _dungeon_ chills Eren to the bone. He shivers.

"That place was your sanctuary." Erwin's eyes aren't kind necessarily, but they aren't unkind, either. "And I put you there."

Eren nods. "I think I know that. And I also think I know you're not to blame."

"Well, I know you don't have a clue what you're talking about," Levi remarks in a sort of tongue-twister that Eren has to replay in his mind to comprehend. "All that you know isn't real. I filled your head with illusions. This island, your life, all of it's a lie."

"You did _what?_" Eren turns on his heel and spreads an arm at the collapsing island. "This is _your_ fault?" Eren's life is crumbling apart because of this midget. He is the reason Eren is imprisoned in a nightmare. He is the reason Eren doesn't have parents or a home or any authentic memories.

"Why?" Eren demands, rage flooding him. "Why would you do that to me?" Too enraged to wait for an answer, Eren coils back and swings a fist at this guy's mouth—

_Whack! _Levi catches Eren's punch in a steel grip, mid-swing. Eren's arm locks up, his elbow joint popping, and he tries to hide the shock on his face, but his eyes have gone wide.

Eren doesn't back down. His muscles roil, but he makes no gain. Levi is like a wall. Gritting his teeth, Eren fights forward, ignoring the thought that maybe trying to punch this guy was a bad move. Levi counters Eren's glare without heat, then his fingers smash around Eren's fist—and Eren's knuckles crunch. He shouts and taps out.

Dropping to his knees, Eren cradles his crushed hand. His fingers are puffed up, looking cartoonish and porcine as if the bones have turned to cotton balls. He feels the pain at a distance. But right up close, he feels the resentment like fire in his chest. Eren bends his lip in a vicious snarl at Levi.

"You went too far!" Mikasa shouts, lowering next to Eren and gently taking his busted hand.

Levi steps closer to Eren, his footfalls heavier than when he had been battling hellhounds. "You would hit the person that saved your life?"

"I would if he were a manipulative bastard."

Levi stares in amazement. "You just _beam_ gratitude."

"Yeah, my hand's feeling really grateful. Thank you."

Mikasa inspects Eren's hand, and Eren impatiently pulls out of her grasp. "You shouldn't move it," she tells him.

"It's fine." He accuses Levi with his eyes.

And Levi squats in front of Eren, holding his accusatory stare, undaunted. "Give me your hand."

"Like hell!" Eren draws back, as if preparing to fend off a blow.

Flattening his mouth, Levi seizes Eren's wrist, and Eren braces himself for a world of hurt, but Levi is surprisingly careful as he wraps both his hands around Eren's puffy knuckles. Eren's fingers are a good length longer than Levi's and stick out past his palms. A blossoming of warmth starts in the middle of Levi's palms, spreading outward and seeping into Eren's skin, until Eren feels like his hand is submerged in hot bath water. Then Levi lets go, and Eren's fingers are normal-sized.

Eren studies his own hand as if it is a foreign appendage, turning it over and over, and Levi draws up his knee, resting an elbow on his kneecap. "If you want me gone, tell me to leave. You summoned me, so I have to do what you say."

"But if he revokes the contract," Petra breaks in, "you'll have nowhere to—"

"It's his call." Levi doesn't look at her and waits for Eren's response. But Eren is still pondering his newly repaired hand. "Decide. We don't have all night."

Eren spreads his fingers, curling them and uncurling them. Good as new. "I don't get why it's my call, but I'm not gonna tell you to leave." Once again he curls his fingers inward, tight this time. The color pulls from his skin. "That doesn't mean I trust you."

"Eren." Armin is standing behind Mikasa. "I know it looks bad, but all Levi has ever done is try to help you. He asked Mikasa and me to live with you here, on this island. It was supposed to be a peaceful place." He gives Eren a despairing look. "But I guess something like that can't last."

"I'll admit that it was an admirable effort," Erwin says. "Still, I don't condone desertion."

Eren tilts his head. "Desertion?"

"Kid," says the ashy-haired man, whom Petra had called Oluo, "you've been AWOL for two damn years."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Petra slaps Oluo's arm. "Zip it, Oluo. That's none of your business."

"None of my business!" Oluo sounds incredulous. "That brat was the only advantage Heaven had. Now angels are dying, demons are making headway, and here he is living it up in tropical paradise without a friggin' care in the cosmos!"

Petra hits him harder. "_Shut up!_ You've said too much! It's not Eren's fault the underworld's been gaining power!" She gives Oluo a stern warning until he bows out. Then the warning thaws from her eyes, as she moves her gaze to Levi. "Besides, Levi has been fighting on our side. Even without Eren, we've remained strong with his help."

"But his power won't suffice anymore." Erwin looks at Levi. "Your illusions over Eren are failing because war requires you to exhaust a bulk of your capacity. Whether it's for his protection, or because you're no longer strong enough to uphold this illusion, Eren will have to come with us. We have no other option." Erwin pulls something from behind his back—another shimmering ivory blade. "However, if it's a fight that you want, I'll oblige you."

Levi's eyes pass over the blade unconcernedly, as he stares off at nothing. "This time I'll let you take Eren, but if you try anything"—he picks crusted blood from his cuticles—"I'll pluck your every last feather, you one-winged creep."

The silence is weighty, Levi's threat weightier, and Eren severs the strain like a taut thread. "Take me where?" Does Eren even get a choice if he is taken or not taken?

"Blondie has a point," Levi says, almost unwillingly. "Even though I can't follow you inside, the academy is the safest place for you."

"What academy?"

"Sacred Heart Academy," Erwin says. "It's a school that doubles as a sanctuary for angels and demons your age."

Eren looks at Levi. "And you're not coming?"

"I'm not allowed past the gates." Levi's mouth is a line.

"Does that mean this is it? I won't ever see you again?" The thought of separating with Levi, the guy who crushed his hand, is startlingly difficult, and Eren doesn't know why.

Levi gives Eren an incomprehensible look. "Is that what you want?"

"No, I have questions."

Levi's eyes are burnished silver like polished nickel. "You'll find me, then." With an outstretched hand, Levi reaches for Eren, and Eren remains still. The instant Levi's fingertips touch his head everything goes dark and distant. The fabric of reality tears around Eren. The warp and weave of time collapse. And into a black abyss, he falls and falls and falls...

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Eren knows that he is dreaming but can't seem to wake up. In the dream he has his legs drawn up to his chest, his chin on his knees, staring blankly at a stone wall. He is bare-chested; the ground is cold and damp; and a shackle keeps him from moving more than a few footsteps from a stripped cot. That feeling of the world on his shoulders—it is his wings. They are flaccid on his back, shedding feathers like a molting bird.

There is the shriek of his sanctuary being opened.

"Heaven's Miracle, Eren Jaeger." A man. "I humbly ask your permission to enter."

"Permission granted." Eren's voice rasps like sandpaper.

Eren hears approaching footsteps then feels a presence next to him like a gust of warmth in this stale cell, but he doesn't look up. His face is set in his arms. Then fingers go through his feathers, and Eren doesn't flinch as any other angel would. Nothing can penetrate the numb dark that conquers his immortal life.

"Will you lend me strength?"

Eren always thought it was funny that they ask him to "lend" his strength. If Eren merely _leant_ them his strength, it would be returned to him. "I give you my strength, soldier." Eren opens his hand and sees a tremor in his wrist and fingers, and tries to remember the last time he could hold his hand steady. Two hard-skinned hands—the hands of a warrior—wrap around his, and Eren closes his eyes, feeling himself drain out as if his blood is being drawn. Dumbing numbness spreads from his fingertips, to his wrist, to his shoulder, all the way to his wings.

"Thank you." The angel soldier releases Eren's hand, and Eren gathers up his legs again, unable to feel that they haven't left his chest. Putting his chin on his kneecaps, Eren stares at the wall again. A movement of white—Eren watches one of his feathers shed from his wing and settle on the floor. He drags his barefoot over it, shuffling it into a pile that has accumulated in the corner of his sanctuary. _Filthy, _he hisses at himself, _these wings._

"Heaven harbors special feelings for you, Eren." Eren is surprised; he thought the soldier had left, and then he feels another faint stroke of his wing. "You give us the strength to live, even when emptiness and sorrow tear us open like a bleeding wound and leave us unwhole."

Eren tastes sand. "Your partner is…"

"Passed."

Eren's wings tremble, the strongest response that he has felt in a while.

"We could never repay you for your service and sacrifice, Eren Jaeger." Then the cell door squeals shut. And one thought resonates through his veins: he isn't enough.

The image ebbs from the edges of Eren's vision like a receding tide. He gasps, bolting erect and breathing hard; his head hits something that feels like brick. "Ow!"

He glimpses a pink mark beneath jet-black hair before Mikasa claps her hand over it, groaning. "Why'd you wake up so fast?"

"Why's your head made of rock?"

"What?" She rubs her forehead experimentally. "It's not."

"Yeah, it is."

"No…" But she sounds unsure.

Then Armin pops up behind her shoulder, beaming. "You're awake." Off-white gauze wraps his head like a circlet crown.

Eren takes the time to look around and pinpoint where he is. Definitely not his bedroom—or any other room that he knows. The sharp smell of peroxide and blasting AC dominate this room. Eren shivers and tugs a wool thermal blanket higher around his legs. He is sitting on a bed, one in a long row of similar beds, the heads mashed to bare white walls, and complementing white screens separate them.

"Are we in a hospital?"

"You're in the academy's infirmary." The voice isn't Mikasa's or Armin's. The screen next to the bed rolls away to reveal a woman with a thick chestnut ponytail and oval glasses. Her eyes are the color of Colombian coffee, hyped-up on caffeine, too. Her eyes are sprightly, unnervingly so. Eren finds himself scooting to the edge of the bed away from her.

So everything that had happened, it wasn't a dream...

"Why? I'm not injured."

"No, but a physical check up is in order. It's my job to figure out what's going on in that young, strapping body of yours." The woman sticks out her hand. "I'm Hanji Zoe, and it's an honor to finally meet you, Eren Jaeger." Eren accepts her hearty handshake, and she sits beside him. The mattress squeaks. "So tell me, Eren, what do you know about yourself?"

What a simple question, yet Eren can't manage an answer. He knows that what he thinks he knows isn't real. So what does he know, really? "I don't," he finally replies.

Hanji looks at him keenly. "First," she says, "you should be aware of your true nature." She adjusts her glasses. "You're an angel, Eren."

Eren hears what she is saying; he even believes her, but the news doesn't strike him. It goes right over his head. "_Finally._ Someone who sees my worth." He reclines on the wall. "An angel is a little much, but I'll take it." Mikasa pinches his ear. "Hey!" Jerking away, he massages the flaming lobe sullenly. "It was a joke."

"Can you be serious for a moment?" Mikasa is earnest. "You're not on the island anymore. You're in reality."

Reality? Eren isn't sure he knows what that means anymore. The island was everything he has ever known. Isn't that his reality? "My parents—or not my parents—" he breaks off, his throat going tight. He swallows and tries again. "My home just disappeared right in front of me, and now you're telling me that none of it was even real. How do you expect me to accept that when I have fifteen years of memories on that island? That was my _life_. It's all I know!"

It isn't until Mikasa lightly touches the inside of his wrist that Eren realizes his hands are so tightly balled his nails have nipped his flesh. Recoiling sharply, he turns his cheek at her. He feels pricks in his eyes. He is confused. He is angry. And he might not be on an island anymore, but he has never felt more isolated. How could a fabricated life feel so real?

"I know, Eren," Mikasa murmurs. "Let us explain."

"Then explain, already." He glares at the overhead light bulbs intently; the light expands in his eyes until it is all that he sees, and the pricks fade.

"You're special, Eren," Hanji says. "Very special." Against his usual impulse, Eren doesn't brush that off with a joke, because what exactly does being "special" entail? "You're what we call the angel of hope, with the power to give others your physical strength and willpower. You made the angels strong and provided them with the courage they needed to fight and brave hardships. But you suffered for it."

Hanji's voice is low in pitch. "When you use your power, you can make others astoundingly strong," she explains. "However, in turn, you also make yourself weak in proportion. It's the cost of such great power, a price you were willing to pay for the angels, but it heavily encumbered you. So after some time," she says, "you fell into deep despair." Hanji is looking into Eren's face too hard. He drops his eyes and watches his fingers tug at each other in his lap.

"That explains some stuff," Eren says meditatively. It explains why he has dreams about feeling numb all over and wings that feel like weights. "Where does Levi come in, though? What's my connection to him? He's a demon, and he's…protecting me. Why is that?"

"You summoned him, and no one besides you and Levi know the reason." Hanji's voice isn't as kind; she sounds as if she is veiling her true feelings, and Eren feels himself bristle. Does she hate him for summoning Levi? "All we understand is Erwin went to visit your sanctuary one day, and you weren't there." Hanji's expression is stiff. "Your wings were torn from your body and lying in a pool of blood, and that is when Levi showed up, volunteering to fight in Heaven's army. He refused to tell us where you were or what had happened, only that you were safe."

Eren feels a dull ache in his chest. Levi has been protecting Eren for two years, fighting for him in Heaven's army, and how had Eren shown him gratitude? By swinging a fist at his face. "Why would he do that?"

Hanji's brown eyes are opaque brown behind her glasses like the murky water. "You'll have to ask him because I don't have the answer."

"I have another question; why was I shackled?" Cold, abrasive metal on his skin is an obscurely familiar sensation like a distant memory. "Was I being punished or something?"

"It was a precaution." Hanji sounds like she doesn't want to elaborate, which only heightens Eren's curiosity.

"For what?"

"Do you remember anything at all before the island?"

Eren thinks back, drawing a blank. "No, nothing."

"Then I suggest we take it slow with the Q and A. I don't want to overload you." She slaps her knees, and the stiffness and sobriety shatters from her expression, the liveliness returning. "Check up time!" She seizes the hem of his shirt, tugging. "Let's take that filthy shirt off." His shirt is drawn over his stomach, and the air bites at his exposed skin.

Her abrupt enthusiasm startles Eren, and he jerks backwards, smacking his head against the wall. He hisses. "Whoa, whoa. Yeah, okay. Sure." Then he takes her wrists. "I can do it myself." He is still wearing his white cotton tee that he went to bed in. It is ruined with slashes from hellhound claws, the only concrete evidence that it wasn't all a dream. He takes the fraying hem and, in one swift motion, pulls it over his head. Grains of sand shower the sheets, and leftover patches tenaciously hold to his skin. He scrubs himself clean.

"You mind moving forward for me?" Hanji grins, all teeth.

He moves himself from the wall, and Hanji grabs his shoulders, further pushing him. His knees draw up, his spine arcing forward, and his head drops between his kneecaps. Hanji's hands are unabashed, as she presses her fingers in Eren's back, feeling his shoulder blades, between them, under them. "Amazing! I can't feel your wings at all. The orifices are completely gone." She pushes her glasses to the top of her head. "I wonder how Levi did that."

"Orifices?"

"Wing orifices," she explains. "They're little slits near the shoulder blades where angel wings unfurl. Some people call them wings scars, but I think that sounds morbid."

Mikasa nudges Armin. "You could show him yours."

"What?" Armin's eyes are round. Then he turns his gaze on Eren and nods. "Sure, I'll show you." Sitting down on the bed's edge, he drags the back of his shirt up without taking it off, and at first Eren doesn't see anything out of the ordinary. Then he spots two, almost imperceptible, vertical lines on the insides of Armin's jutting shoulder blades. The slivers are paler than the rest of Armin's skin, raised slightly like scar tissue.

Eren reaches out, and Hanji swats his hand. "Don't touch," she tells him. "Angel wings are very sensitive."

"It's all right," Armin mutters. "He can touch." His face is red again, like it was on the island, as he relaxes his back, hunching over. Eren can see the sharp nubs of Armin's backbone and gingerly runs his fingers over the slit on his right shoulder. Armin shudders and his head sinks lower.

Eren traces the scar and doesn't consider how his touch will affect Armin when he presses harder. His finger slips into the slit. The skins open wider like lips, and Eren feels the cool tips of feathers inside. The touch startles Eren—startling Armin more so. He bolts straight, sucking in a breath as if something ice-cold has made contact. That is when the door opens, and a small blond girl walks in. Her eyes slide directly to Eren, to his hand on Armin's back, to his finger touching Armin's wingtip. Then suddenly Eren is on the floor (he doesn't know how he got there), and his own knees straddle his head in a pretzel knot.

Standing over him, the blond girl is expressionless and wielding her illuminated angel blade. "You're dead." Her voice sounds dead.

Mikasa draws her dagger. It flickers with black smoke. "Back off."

"Annie!" Armin hastily pulls his shirt back down, as if he has been caught in the nude. "Wait—I told him he could touch my wings."

She stares unblinkingly at Armin. "You let him?"

Armin's mouth has thinned out. "Y-Yeah."

The girl slowly steps back, putting away her dagger, and not once does she look at Eren. She drifts over to Armin, and they lock gazes, private and guardedly intimate, as if they can see into each other's souls but are hesitant to invade each other's space. Their movements are tentative—Annie slides her hand on the mattress as if to touch Armin's hand, then she withdraws, letting her arm fall at her side. Armin has broken their connected stare to look at Eren.

"This is Annie," he says, "my partner." Annie has frosty blue eyes, glassy like fish eyes, and her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, low on her head.

Eren gawks. "You have a girlfriend?" He hopes Armin doesn't take insult from his transparent amazement.

Armin doesn't appear insulted, but he stammers a bit. "No, she's my partner."

"You never told me you had a girlfriend." Eren feels a little betrayed. Armin and Eren don't have secrets—other than the unimportant ones involving the supernatural world and cosmic powers greater than themselves. "Come on, Armin. You don't hide your girlfriend from your best friend. Isn't that mancode?"

"_No._" Armin blows out an exasperated breath, which Eren finds interesting; it takes real skill to vex Armin's patience. "She's my counterpart. We work together."

Hanji, who had hurdled out of the way when Eren was thrown off the bed, is now standing by the screen. "Angels aren't strong enough to shoulder the burdens they bear on their own. They need each other, so they fight in pairs. Every angel's soul is matched with another, establishing a bond that transcends lifetimes."

Eren likes the thought of having a soul mate. "Who's my partner? Where is she?" He watches the door, half-expecting her to come waltzing in like Annie had.

Hanji purses her lips and temples her hands together. "Well, I should have said _almost_ every soul. The Covenant makes the laws we abide by, and your power was so unique and special that they agreed it should be shared amongst all the angels instead of limiting it to a single partner."

"Oh." Eren tries to conceal his disappointment, but even to his own ears, he sounds noticeably crestfallen. "Was I the only one without a partner?"

"No, actually," Hanji says. "There was one other."

* * *

><p><strong>Historia<strong>

Historia shuffles from foot to foot, as she waits in the lobby of Sacred Heart Academy. It is late in the night, so the place is soundless and empty. The floor is carpeted with a dark ruby rug, and a globe chandelier hangs at the ceiling's focal point.

Strung on her shoulder is a duffle bag jam-packed with all that she owns, which isn't much: a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, and a blanket. She is wearing her nicest outfit, a white cotton dress that ties around her waist, coupled with her navy blue cardigan. This is her first time venturing outside her sanctuary; her nerves are charged with anxiety. She hugs her shabby teddy bear, Frieda, for comfort. Fifteen years old and still holding on to teddy bears—childish, she knows, but for an angel that is unwhole, with no partner to make up her other half, the loneliness eats her alive.

Frieda, with her black glass eyes and tawny mohair fur, has always been with Historia on the darkest and loneliest of nights, keeping her company and filling the vacant side of her bed. It would have been unfair to leave behind such a loyal companion. Historia can't split with Frieda.

Earlier in the afternoon, a person with androgynous features (Historia couldn't tell whether the guest was a man or woman) had visited her sanctuary delivering an invitation to attend Sacred Heart Academy. It had been sealed with red wax imprinted with the emblem of two wings, and at the bottom of the parchment was the signature _Erwin Smith_, headmaster. It seemed like an urgent order rather than an invitation, but Historia has wanted to leave that so-called sanctuary since day one. No questions asked, she packed up and left, never once looking back.

So here she is, and has been waiting here for a total of twenty minutes. Her shoulder is beginning to ache, and she shifts her bag to her other shoulder. The androgynous person from earlier, whose name is Nanaba, emerges at the end of the hallway. Nanaba has short blond hair parted down the middle, military-style, and a nondescript flat chest. "Welcome to Sacred Heart, Historia. Thank you for accepting the invitation."

_Probably a man_, Historia decides, _final answer_. But her guess is as good as any. Nanaba has a gentle, alto voice and calm blue eyes, which would make one conclude that he is a woman. It is his curve-less build that makes Historia think he is a man.

"Allow me to take your bag." He holds out a slim-fingered hand.

Historia smiles and adjusts the thick strap. "Thank you, but I've got it." She would rather not part with her stuff.

"Very well. Come with me." Nanaba leads her down a dark corridor that seems infinite, with glass lamps blown into hollow spheres hanging at intervals on the walls. Shut doors line each side, and Historia wonders what is behind them, or rather _who_ is behind them. Students? Potential friends? They pass a total of thirteen lamps—Historia has been counting—and turn a corner, coming to another doorway. This door is larger than the others they have passed, more official and distinguishable by its gold-trimmed frame.

Nanaba knocks, a "come in" answers, and he opens the door. He props it wide for Historia to enter, and the first thing that she sees is a mahogany desk, with a man sitting behind it in a large, cushioned chair that appears, to Historia, like a throne. The man has his broad shoulders raised, his tough-skinned hands laced neatly on the desk, expression professional but welcoming.

"Historia Reiss, I'm pleased you could make it."

Historia can't keep the smile off her face. "So am I." He has no idea the weight of truth in her words.

He gestures to the seat positioned in front of his desk. "Please sit." Once she is comfortably settled, he brings his hands into a fold beneath his strong chin. "I'm Erwin Smith, the one who sent the invitation."

Historia crosses her ankles. "It's very nice to meet you, sir. Thank you for bringing me here."

"It's an honor to have you here." He sounds like he means it. "I apologize for the delay. I ran into a minor setback."

That is the moment she senses pain—Mr. Erwin Smith's pain. An inexplicable force on her shoulder. She can't _feel_ it, though. Not yet. "You're wounded."

Erwin stiffly shifts his right shoulder. His smile is forced. "I assure you it's fine."

"I can help you." She rises out of the chair.

Erwin shakes his head. "Even if I allowed you to aid me, your power wouldn't affect this injury. A person that I trust caused it."

She pauses. "Your friend hurt you?" Historia can't heal wounds that trusted comrades inflict; that is her power's flaw.

Erwin considers that. "I'm not sure he is a friend. He is simply someone that I trust."

Resettling in the chair, Historia wrings her fingers in her lap, lowering her eyelashes. "I'm sorry." Sorry for his pain, sorry that she can't take it away.

He waves away her concern. "No matter." Then he leans forward, businesslike. "For your protection we're giving you a new identity. You will be Krista Lenz."

"My protection?" Is it unsafe here?

"The others will be—enthusiastic to know the angel of sacrifice is here. I don't want the commotion to overwhelm you."

"I see. A new name would be best, then." After knowing only solitude, staying low and meeting new people one at a time is probably the best way to go; otherwise, she might feel overwhelmed as Erwin has said. Picturing swarms of people around her makes her hands clammy.

Content with her reply, Erwin leans back in his throne-like chair. "Nanaba will take you to your room, then. The dorms are doubles, and each student has already been paired up."

Historia's heart sinks. Even in an academy full of people, kids her age, she is alone and isolated.

"We had only one opening left. I hope you don't mind a roommate of the Accursed type."

Historia's mouth opens in surprise. "A demon for a roommate?"

"There is no need to worry about her intentions," Erwin reassures her, and she doesn't have difficulty believing him. "She has shown no signs of unacceptable behavior and generally keeps to herself. She is exceptionally perceptive and sharp-minded. However, she makes the other students nervous, so she is often excluded from their festivities. On that level, the two of you can relate."

"What's her name?"

"Ymir."

That name stirs something in Historia's mind—a flash, an image, a slight pressure on her lips. She touches her mouth, perplexed. "I'll be her roommate."

* * *

><p><strong>Krista<strong>

Through more infinite, shadowy halls lined with shut doors, Nanaba escorts Historia—Krista to a room at the back of the dormitory.

"This is it," he says, stopping at the final door in the final hallway. He doesn't knock this time, swinging open the door, unannounced—and a tall, lean girl is inside, her back facing them. The girl, presumably Ymir, is dressing herself. Krista starts to cover her eyes, an apology already making its way out her mouth. But then, staring, she notices Ymir's bare back doesn't have any slits for wings. Are demons wingless? Krista hasn't had the opportunity to see a demon in person. Krista looks harder, searching for orifices on her flexing shoulder muscles. She finds none. Then a black long-sleeved shirt is pulled down, covering her slender back. Ymir turns, frowning irritably.

"I might be wrong, but I was under the impression it was common courtesy to knock before barging in."

"Sorry for disturbing you, Ymir," says Nanaba. "This is Krista Lenz, your new roommate. Krista, meet Ymir."

Ymir has short dark hair, the base of her neck uncovered. Eyes sharp as pins, unfathomably stormy. And an angular, fine-boned face, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. "You're trusting me with a roommate? Aren't you afraid I'll corrupt her or whatever?"

"Krista can handle herself."

"Really?" Ymir steps closer to Krista, staring down at her. "Because I can see her soul. I know exactly the kind of person she is."

Unfazed, Krista sticks out her hand, fashioning her best smile. "Nice to meet you, Ymir. I hope we'll be good friends."

Ymir's eyes flutter as if surprised. Then she goes to accept Krista's handshake—and Krista braces herself, anticipating the emotion that she will feel, for the moment their hands touch, Krista will feel everything Ymir feels. Krista holds her breath as her hand moves up and down in a handshake motion. She feels the warmth of Ymir's palm but none of Ymir's pain or fear or sorrow. She feels skin-on-skin contact. That is it. No emotion. Bewildered, Krista stares at their interlocked hands. Then, too soon, Ymir's hands disappear inside the pockets of her plaid pajama pants, and a pleasant flower of warmth lingers in Krista's palm.

Ymir glances at Nanaba. "I understand why you've given her an alias, but couldn't you have chosen a better name? Krista doesn't cut it. It doesn't have the same charm as Historia."

"You know I don't get a say in what goes on around here, and neither do you." Nanaba grips the knob. "Goodnight, you two. And, Krista, if Ymir bothers you in any way, don't hesitate to inform us."

The corner of Ymir's mouth twitches. "Was that a threat?"

"It was strong advice." He leaves, shutting the door.

Grinning after him, Ymir snickers. "I like her."

"Nanaba's a woman?"

Ymir shrugs. "Dunno."

The dorm room has been kept tidy. The floor is clear with a red Persian rug, and only a dark violet shade lamp sits on the nightstand between their two beds. The wooden wardrobe is shut, no clothes spilling out the crack, and there aren't any décor or pictures, very plain. Krista lugs her duffle bag to the unoccupied bed on the right side, dumping it, then squeezing her sore shoulder.

"Krista, Historia, Angel Goddess,"—Ymir hasn't moved from the door—"your identity is quite fickle and rather confusing."

"When it's just the two of us, you can call me whichever you prefer." Krista empties her bag, clothes neatly folded, and lays them out. "Among other people though, please refer to me as Krista."

"You got it, Miss Goddess."

At the name Ymir has chosen, Krista makes a face that she quickly wipes away. "Um…," she begins with scalpel-like delicacy, "would you mind choosing a different one?"

Ymir's eyebrows arch, and her eyes glitter. "You said whichever I preferred."

"Yes, but I think that one's over-embellished."

"I like it." Ymir plops down on her bed, folding an arm behind her head. She reaches for a remote on the nightstand. A television set, Krista then sees, is mounted on the wall. "We're the only room that's got a TV. Lucky us, right? It's compensation for isolating me, but it's not like I cared. I prefer solitude."

Krista keeps silent, thinking to herself, _you don't know real solitude._

The TV flickers on; it has been muted. "But having a roomie might not be so bad. I admit you're an interesting piece of work, Krista slash Historia slash Miss Goddess." Ymir tears open a nutrition bar with her teeth; one of those chewy bars that claims to be a "good source of fiber" but is drizzled with chocolate and caramel, with mini peanut butter morsels packed inside. She nips off the end. "By the way," she remarks, chewing, "you dropped your teddy bear."

Krista turns, astonished to find Frieda neglected near the door. She was so mystified by Ymir's handshake that she didn't notice Frieda had slipped from her arm.

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Hanji shows Eren and Mikasa to the room they will be sharing. It isn't a big room or a small room, enough space for two full-sized beds, with pleated sheets and coverlet as if awaiting them, and a shared nightstand between them. A wooden wardrobe is off to the side, its doors gaping open, and Eren is surprised to find clothing inside.

"Take your pick," Hanji says, with a wink.

After swapping out his grimy, tattered clothes for a clean pair of jeans (provided by Erwin, he learned) and a burgundy polo (also provided by Erwin, who seems to have an inclination for polo shirts), Eren finally asks about Levi. Is there any way he can see him?

Hanji tells Eren to pay a visit to the cemetery; the academy's wards are weaker there. A school with a cemetery in the backyard. Eren shakes his head. Just when he thought things couldn't _possibly_ get any weirder, he finds out his new school harbors angels, demons, _and_ dead people.

The gates to the cemetery are wrought iron with pointed spikes and gothic stone columns, crowned by chipped angel statues knelt in prayer. Eren pulls on one of the bars. Locked. He trains his eyes on the center of the gates and sees that the bolt is heavy and flaking with rust; it takes Eren one—two—three yanks before it screeches from home. The gates gradually creep apart like a haunting ghost is guiding them open. Eren's hair prickles on his neck, and he passes through.

The yard is overgrown with weeds, and the statues ornamenting the grounds are fractured and smeared black with mold; moss surrounds a few statues partway as if it had choked on the stone while swallowing it. Then in the distance, Eren sees many, many tombstones scattering the grounds like chess pieces in the same barren state as the statues.

"Levi!" Eren whisper-shouts, feeling silly for calling his name but not knowing what else to do. He cups his hands, projecting his whispering voice louder. "Hey, Mr. Levi! Are you here?" Eren clears the thorny branches of a bush out of the way, searching behind it.

A flat voice comes from behind him, instantly familiar—"What is it?" Taken off guard, Eren wheels around, his breath catching. Levi has ditched his bloodied leather jacket for a gray pullover that has contrasting white cuffs, which draw the eye to his small hands; a blue vein, Eren sees, faintly bulges from the surface of his pale skin. Eren wonders if electricity thrums through those veins. Crossing his arms, Levi points his chin across the yard. "Next time, check that other bush over there. It looks much more hospitable."

"Uh—" Eren then realizes how ridiculous he must have appeared, calling out while searching behind bushes as if he has lost track of a runaway puppy. "Sorry." Eren doesn't know why he is apologizing for his own stupidity, then he remembers Levi is due for an actual apology. "For hitting you earlier."

"You didn't," Levi points out.

"But I tried to."

Levi brushes that off. "It was a pathetic attempt."

Eren takes the insult in stride and slides his hands into his pockets, changing the subject. "Can I ask you some questions?"

"What do you want to know?" Levi looks as if he would rather not answer any of Eren's questions.

"I think Levi's a strange name for a demon. Isn't it a sacred name?"

It takes a second for Levi to reply, like he wasn't prepared for the question. "What, think Leviathan is better suited?"

"Sure, if you were a sea serpent." Eren clears his throat and scratches his head—a habit that he has when he is feeling out of place, and Levi makes him feel more out of place than an angel without wings. "I like Levi. It fits you."

"My name is irrelevant."

From the clipped retort, Eren knows he should drop the subject. So Eren moves on to more pressing questions; they come spewing out like word-vomit. "Will I get my memories back? Why did I summon you? What happened that day? Who—"

Levi clamps a hand over Eren's mouth as if to jam his questions back inside him. "That's enough. For tonight"—he raises a forefinger—"I'll answer one question, and one question _only_. Choose wisely." Levi doesn't remove his hand until Eren nods in consent.

"Why only one?"

Levi gives him a look. "Because—"

Before he can fully reply, Eren uses both hands to cover Levi's mouth, realizing his mistake. "Wait! That doesn't count! I take it back." Levi's eyes narrow, and he peels Eren's hands from his face.

"Are you an idiot?"

"Maybe." Eren is seriously questioning his IQ. "Give me a second to think." He fixes his gaze on a grieving stone angel. She is collapsed over a pedestal, arms curled around her face, and her wings are slumped in a wounded posture. Hanji had said that Eren fell into despair and sought out help, and that is when Levi came and gave Eren his dream life, even if it was just an illusion. He even saved Eren from hellhounds—all for what? Eren flicks his eyes to Levi. "What's in it for you?" His tone is offhand, and his hands are back in his pockets.

Folding his arms, Levi props his shoulder on a large pondering gargoyle. "I want something from you." He mirrors Eren's casual tone.

"And what would that be?"

Levi's eyelids droop, languid and heavy, and his voice when he speaks has sunk low. "Your soul." He watches Eren keenly, as if he expects him to flee in the other direction.

But Eren withholds any reaction from his expression. He curses and kicks a cluster of weeds. "Can't believe I didn't guess that."

Levi's characteristic frown deepens, unsatisfied with Eren's response as if he had _wanted_ Eren to run away. "You should get back. Dawn will be here in a few hours, and you've got a full day tomorrow. The others will be likely to swarm you, I imagine. Heaven's Miracle has returned at last." He says the last part with an undertone of mockery. Then he peels from the contemplative gargoyle and strides to the gates. His footsteps are noiseless, making Eren's leaf-crunching steps seem clunky and bumbling.

He halts at the gates and turns to watch Eren safely exit like a personal bodyguard. Pulling the doors behind Eren, Levi brings the creaking gates to a shuddering close. Then he loosely grips one of the iron bars, gazing through the gap. "Don't tell anyone about your wings. I don't know how understanding the other angels will be when they find out you are without them."

Eren nods, then starts back to the dormitory.

"And, Eren…," Levi's metallic eyes gleam, and his eyelids lower, "that soul of yours, use it well. Your time is limited."

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

When Eren makes it back to his dorm room, the lights are off, and Mikasa is a rumple on her bed in the room's right half.

"Hey, Mikasa, you awake?" If she had been asleep, she should be awake now.

She turns over and tugs the ball-chain dangling from the lamp on the nightstand. It clicks, and Eren can see the tired redness in Mikasa's eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"Good. I need to tell you something."

Eren shucks off his shoes, scrunches the back of his shirt, and throws it aside. Then he undoes his jeans, and at the sound of the zipper, Mikasa's head goes up. "Eren!" she hisses. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready for bed." He drops his pants to his ankles. Eren's taste in underwear is cheap: gray boxer briefs with the ingenious choice for a brand name _Joe Boxer_ stitched in the elastic. "Why? What are you doing?" He deliberates whether he wants to put on pajama pants or not. Kicking his discarded clothes under the bed, he decides no, he likes the barelegged freedom.

"For once, can you please treat me like I'm not a guy? Because, you know, I'm a girl."

"Oh right, the wardrobe's all yours."

"What? No—That's not what I…" She exhales. "What about your clothes? Where will you put them?"

"On my bed, probably." He points across the room. "Or that nice-looking corner."

"You're hopeless." She rolls over towards the wall. "What did you want to tell me?"

He pounces on his bed on all fours. The mattress bobs under his weight, and he wriggles beneath the quilted coverlet. "Levi wants my soul."

The news doesn't have the impact Eren thought it would. Through a yawn Mikasa mutters, "That's the price of working with a demon. But don't worry; the angels will kill him before he can collect. They're only letting him live because he's devoted to protecting you. Until he fulfills your contract, he'd die for you."

"But if I agreed to give him my soul, shouldn't I stand by my word?"

Mikasa turns her head. In the lamplight the whites of her eyes glisten. "No. Don't feel bad for cheating a demon."

"There's something that I don't get." Eren curls on his side, burrowing into his pillow. "Why would he go through all this trouble for one soul? Is that normal?"

Mikasa lies on her back, her arms rested on her chest above the coverlet. She blinks up at the ceiling. "Depending on how desirable a soul is, a demon will go to great lengths to get it. But I've never understood why he wants yours."

"What's wrong with mine?"

"Before I met you, I didn't think souls could be wounded. But when I saw yours, I could tell that it was once a very pure soul—now it's scarred. I don't know what kind of anguish a person has to endure for their soul to be afflicted, but yours has suffered."

"And he still wants mine?"

"Looks like it." She turns out the light, ending the conversation.

* * *

><p><strong>Armin<strong>

Armin opens his eyes, and Annie is standing between their beds, blankly staring at the wall. Her blond hair is tied into a messy, loose bun, and her gray sweatpants are baggy, bunching around her small thighs. "Annie?" He sits up. "Are you having trouble sleeping?"

Annie's fingers wrap her upper arm. "Yeah."

Rolling the sheets down, Armin moves to the side, so she can slide in next to him. She crawls in, and even though Annie takes up little space, Armin presses himself as close to the wall as he can.

Annie drapes the blankets over them. "Thanks."

He turns the opposite way, his back facing her. "We can share whenever you want. I don't mind."

Before Armin agreed to live on the island with Eren and Mikasa, often he and Annie would share this bed. Every night would start out the same, with Armin pressed close to the wall. But he knew that when he woke up, he would be pressed onto Annie, their limbs intertwined, sharing breath and heat. He imagines it will be the same tomorrow morning, too. But he knows that he won't stay. He will slip out from under her embrace, careful not to disturb her, and set out her clothes like he used to do. Then Armin will silently leave—to find Eren. Like he did two years ago.

Annie hasn't asked him what happened on that island, or if he had planned to come back to her. She hasn't asked him for an explanation or an apology. She has said nothing at all about it, which makes Armin feel worse than if she hated him for leaving. He wants to tell her that he is sorry—so, so sorry. But how can he apologize when he knows he is going to leave her every morning for the very same reason that he left the first time? Nothing has changed. Armin hasn't changed. And he isn't sure if he ever will.

"Armin."

"Yes?"

"Why did you let Eren touch your wings?"

Armin feels his heart flutter, as he remembers Eren's hands. Warm. Strong. Uncallused. "…He's my best friend." Heat blooms in his skin, in his stomach, and Armin brings his arms and legs to himself, wishing it gone.

Annie doesn't say anything, but their backs touch. Armin can feel the knobs of her wings and wonders if she can feel his too. Closing his eyes, he is then dragged into sleep all at once—instantly dreaming of saltwater and sand and gold skin. Even in his dreams, Armin leaves Annie behind.


	3. Music Doesn't Lie

Hello, I hope everyone is having wonderful holidays!

This chapter is very long, over 11,000 words. If chapters that are this long are too overwhelming to read, please let me know and I'll make sure to limit myself.

* * *

><p><strong>Krista<strong>

_Knock. Knock._ Krista's eyes peel open. She can feel sleep crusts plastering her eyelids like dried glue. She turns over to see who is at the door: a tall girl with a freckled, angular face—her roommate, Ymir. This morning Ymir is wearing jeans, ripped at the knees, tight-fitting to her ribbon-slim legs, accentuating their length. She hasn't changed out of the black long-sleeved shirt that she went to bed in, but now gray arm warmers are pulled over her wrists. The back of her hair is clipped in a barrette, and she is nibbling the last piece of a blueberry muffin.

"I know you got in late, but if you don't hurry, you'll miss breakfast."

Krista draws herself upright, rubbing the crusts from her eyes. "Oh, thanks for waking me." It takes a while for Krista to gather her bearings. It is Saturday. This is her new dorm room in her new school, Sacred Heart Academy. Her name is not Historia Reiss; it is Krista Lenz. And she has a demon for a roommate.

Ymir crosses the room to their wardrobe. "I noticed you don't have any winter clothes, but I might have something you can borrow." After swinging the doors open, she files through her apparel, sliding hangers down the rail, until she stops on one. She snatches the shirt off roughly, sending the hanger rocking back and forth, and throws something taupe-colored at Krista. It is sewn of sweater knit, a few sizes too big.

"Wear a T-shirt under," says Ymir. "Should do the job."

"Thanks."

"Isn't that what roomies do, share clothes, swap gossip, and have pillow fights in their scanty underwear?" Ymir is oddly chirpy, apparently a morning person. "Or maybe those are just common misconceptions." She hums in afterthought. "That last one doesn't sound too bad, though. Could be fun."

Mr. Erwin didn't tell Krista that her roommate is entirely out of her mind. Krista makes a mental note. "I think I'll change now."

She swings her legs around the edge of the bed and slides off. The red Persian rug feels luxurious on her bare feet; she is accustomed to her scruffy shag carpet. After exchanging her flannel pajamas for one of her plain white T-shirts and a pair of jeans, Krista pulls the loaned sweater over her head. The hem hangs down her thighs but not all the way to her knees, and she has to roll the sleeves a few times before her fingers are visible. The cotton material is substantial and comforting on her arms like a security blanket, and it smells flavorful as if it has been hanging in a spice cabinet.

Once she finishes her morning routine of brushing her teeth and smoothing her hair, she follows Ymir to the mess hall. Contrary to last night, the school is alive with movement; Krista hears bubbling voices and bounding footsteps. Dorm rooms are open wide, and she passes students here-and-there, always in pairs. Krista notices that their eyes veer from Ymir the way they bend away from a light that is too bright. Up ahead, two boys approach, their voices carrying throughout the corridor.

"I've got one word for you: bumper cars."

"That's two words."

"Whatever. Point _is_ I'm gonna knock your ass right off the track."

"That's not possible. There are rails that prevent—"

"I know that! God, do you have to take everything so literally?"

"I wasn't aware the Throne lacked competence for figurative language. I thought He could do everything."

"Do me a favor and stop talking."

The boys turn into their room, a door clicking shut behind them, and Krista says, "What are bumper cars?"

Ymir looks at Krista as if she is an intriguing species of insect. "It's a carnival ride. You drive an electric car lined with rubber bumpers and try to ram other cars lined with rubber bumpers. It's fun—or so I hear." She shrugs. "I haven't tried it myself."

"Does that mean there's a carnival close by?"

"Mm-hmm, it's an annual thing. Tonight, students get free admission. Students from every high school in the district will be there. In other words, it'll be an episode of Gossip Girl."

"What's Gossip Girl?"

"A terrible TV series," says Ymir flippantly. "Sacred Heart doesn't do prom or homecoming or any other social event, for that matter, so if you want to do something fun involving the whole student body, this is your only chance."

Krista can guess the answer but asks anyhow. "Are you going?"

"Most definitely not."

"If you're not going, then I won't either."

"Oh?" Ymir's eyes sparkle. "Fallen for me already, have you?"

"What?"

Ymir cocks an eyebrow and shoots a smile that sits lopsided on her mouth. "Delighted by my charms and stunning good looks?"

"What?" Krista repeats, and her voice breaks embarrassingly. She clears her throat, but it sounds forced and awkward. She cringes, feeling her cheeks flush.

"I was teasing you." Ymir thinks about what she has said, then adds, "Not that my good looks are a joke. My charms, on the other hand, are debatable."

The mess hall is thriving with hungry teenagers, and Ymir reads through the breakfast menu aloud: "Your choice of pancakes, waffles, eggs and bacon, toast, fruit bowls, cereal and milk, a variety of pastries, and much, much more!" Krista settles for cereal and milk and while waiting for her turn to use the 2% milk dispenser, she bumps her shoulder into something that feels like a wall.

"Oh, jeez. Sorry about that." Walls don't apologize. Krista turns, and her nose is centimeters from a royal blue striped sweater, stretched tensely over the width of a muscular chest. She brings her eyes up to this person's face, craning her head back because he towers over her. Her eyes pass wide shoulders and a brawny neck—the easy muscles of someone who was born with them—lastly setting on sharply angled brows, a golden crew cut, and the spark of a confident grin. This boy is what Krista thinks a novel would call a young hero.

"No, I'm sorry," she says. "I was in the way."

The boy looks into her face intently; Krista has to lower her gaze. "Hey, you're the new student that the commander—I mean—headmaster told me about. You're Krista Lenz, right?"

"Mr. Erwin told you about me?" She isn't fond of the thought people are expecting her; that means she will be in a spotlight of searching gazes and unwanted attention.

Detecting her uneasiness, he says, "I'm student body president, so I get first word when new students are admitted." He doesn't shake her hand, since her hands are occupied with her breakfast tray. "I'm Reiner Braun; it's a pleasure to meet you."

Before Krista can requite the greeting, Ymir has returned with a cup of hot coffee. Her eyes narrow at Reiner, but she speaks to Krista. "Where do you want to sit?"

Ymir's razor-sharp stare doesn't affect Reiner or his smile. "You two could sit with us if you'd like. It's Hitch, Marlow, and me." He gestures across the room, his OJ tossing in his glass, nearly splashing over the lip. "We're over there."

Krista looks at Ymir, who is fascinated by her coffee cup, struck silent. "Sure," Krista finally says, when she receives no response from Ymir. "We'd love to."

"Great!" Reiner leads them through the tables sprinkling the room to a square one that has attached two-seater benches on each side. A boy and girl occupy the farthest side. The boy has black bowl-cut hair; watchful, serious eyes; and a long, honest sloping nose. He gives off a no-nonsense air, which greatly mismatches the feisty girl sitting beside him.

She has short sandy hair with sexy, voguish waves, and luminous hazel eyes, feline shape and exotic, lashes full and long. Her mouth is a full-lipped pout, which splits into a grin when she sees Reiner. Her incisors are pointy like small fangs.

"Uh-oh, we've got a freshie in the building."

"Hitch, this is Krista." Reiner takes a seat, and the benches shake with his weight. "Krista, meet Hitch and Marlow."

Demonstrating her natural eloquence, Krista stammers, "Hello." Thank goodness she is a shade more articulate than Ymir, who apparently believes an averted gaze out the window is a sufficient greeting.

"You gonna sit down," says Hitch, "or keep standing there looking uncomfortable? Please don't, 'cause you're making me uncomfortable. "

Ymir sets her cup on the table and sits deliberately, putting her chin in her hand. Krista thinks she sees Hitch shrink a bit, and she looks faintly green, but that could be the indoor lighting. Krista sits down. The bench is small, and her shoulder presses to Ymir's arm. Hitch gapes at their touching shoulders, her lips parting a little.

Marlow forks a sausage patty into his mouth. "Where's Bertholdt?"

"Good question," says Reiner. "I have no idea what he's up to anymore. His head is always in the clouds. I think it has something to do with Annie."

"Annie?" Hitch tears her eyes from Krista's shoulder. "You think he likes her?"

"No." Reiner crosses his arms, and his large biceps stand out against his sleeves. "I think he's in _love_ with her, and I'm afraid he'll get his heartbroken. She's still hung up on her partner. He's been gone for two years, but she'd rather be alone than replace him."

"What happened again?" Hitch flips out a nail file and begins squaring off her thumbnail. "I forget."

"He left. No one knows why or where. He just—disappeared." Reiner guzzles half his glass of OJ in a single go.

Marlow frowns. "I didn't think partners could leave each other. It's unnatural."

"Unnatural because it goes against your instincts? Or unnatural because the Covenant says it is?" Their heads whirl around to Ymir. They look startled, and Krista doesn't know if it is because Ymir has spoken unexpectedly or because what she has said is startling.

"Huh?" Hitch gathers her pristinely plucked brows. "What's the Covenant got to do with anything?"

Ymir absently toys with her coffee cup. "The Covenant designates who will be paired together and tells them that their souls are eternally bound. In my opinion, it doesn't make sense for soul mates to be prearranged by hierarchs."

"That's the way it's always been," Marlow points out. "And we've never had problems before." He glances at Hitch from the corner of his eye, and his chin sets. Hitch doesn't notice.

"You're wrong." Ymir swirls her cup, watching the black liquid funnel into a vortex. "The Covenant wasn't established until after the Fall. Ergo, it hasn't been around as long as you think."

Leaning forward, Marlow grips the table and snaps his head towards Reiner. "Is that true?"

Reiner shrugs his shoulders; the small movement rocks the entire table. "I'm a lot of things, but I can't claim a history buff as one of them. Wish I could. My grades would be higher."

Hitch pockets her nail file. "And the Fall is…" She waits for someone to fill in the blank, and Krista takes the liberty.

"The Fall refers to the morning star's fall from grace, or Lucifer's banishment from Heaven." She realizes she is speaking too quietly—Hitch is straining over the table to listen—so she raises her voice a level. "Lucifer's followers and the angels claiming neutrality fell along with him. The angels who refused to choose a side fell only halfway though, stuck in a place of in-between. The rest kept falling to the underworld and became the first demons."

"Impressive," Ymir mutters with lukewarm interest. "You know your history."

"And if the Covenant was established after the Fall," Marlow explains, "the Fallen angels could've infiltrated it, which could mean our bureaucracy holds no allegiance to Heaven and is acting on its own accord." Marlow has a dark expression. "But there's no way for us to tell if that's the case, because Fallen angels are no different from you and me."

"Politics," Hitch hisses like it is an obscenity. "B_ooooo_ring." She presses in towards Krista, and her eyes look, all of a sudden, brilliantly luminous. "Please tell me you're friends with the new guy. You are, aren't you?"

"New guy?" Reiner echoes. "I wasn't told about a second new student." He sounds confused and possibly hurt.

"He gives off this boy-next-door persona," Hitch says. "And he's totally gorgeous."

Hitch stares past Krista's shoulder, and Krista turns around to see the guy she is talking about: a wholesome-looking boy, the sort that can disarm anyone without trying. Rich brown hair, just-out-of-bed disarray. Standard height. Intense eyes. _Alive_ eyes. He is laughing hard, in a genuine way that makes Krista strangely jealous. How long has it been since she has laughed, really laughed, like that? Actually, she can't remember a time she has _ever_ laughed like that.

A boy across from him, with sun-bleached hair and ruddy cheeks, laughs reservedly but no less genuinely, and next to him is a girl with delicate china-doll looks, milk-white skin and striking black hair, silently chuckling through her profoundly dark eyes.

"I don't know them," Krista says.

Hitch pokes at her fruit bowl and puckers her pouty lips. "The blond is freaking adorable. I just want to put him in my pocket and take him home for Christmas."

Marlow looks annoyed. "Christmas passed already."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Reiner loudly slaps the table; the students sitting nearby jump. "That's my boy Armin!"

"He's so cute," Hitch coos. "Pretty. Like a girl."

Reiner grins. "He's Annie's AWOL partner."

Hitch chokes on a grape. It shoots out her mouth like a bullet—and Ymir tilts to the side, dodging without a glance. "Oh, shit! I did _not_ say anything." Hitch points her plastic fork at them like a weapon. "I didn't, capiche?"

"I don't know who he's with, though. A couple of friends he must've picked up while he was gone." Reiner blinks with purpose as if he has just realized something important; then he sighs, raking a hand through his golden crew cut. "Man, I wonder what's gonna happen to Berholdt. Looks like he's out of the game. He'll probably hole himself up and…" Reiner goes off on a rambling pity roundabout, while Hitch leans over the table, whispering to Ymir, which amazes Krista because she thought Hitch was afraid of Ymir.

"You know who they are, don't you?"

Ymir's eyes slide with laggard leisure towards Hitch. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." But she has a taunting look as if she would love for Hitch to persist and ask a second time.

Hitch takes the bait. "Who's the boy?"

"Eren Jaeger."

Hitch rolls her eyes. "Come on. Seriously, who is it?"

"I am serious," Ymir flatly says. "Heaven's almighty miracle that you've been waiting for these past few years"—she waves her hand—"is that kid right over there. Unimpressive if you ask me."

Groaning histrionically, Hitch hits her forehead on the table, making their trays clatter. "We're doomed!" Then she turns to the side, her hair spilling over her cheekbone. There is a red sore spot above her right eyebrow. "At least he's nice to look at."

"Don't be so quick to judge him, Hitch." Reiner has returned from his pity ramble. "We don't know what he's capable of. He might surprise us."

Drawing up her elbow, she presses her knuckles to the side of her face. "I wouldn't mind a surprise from him." Her dreamy smile and dropped eyelids suggest she doesn't quite mean the same surprise Reiner meant.

Marlow abruptly stands, avoiding their eyes. "I'll catch you guys later." Then he walks away, noticeably rigid as if his spine is a metal pole.

They all stare after him, the same question going through their minds, which Hitch asks out loud. "Sheesh, what's his problem?" She leans closer to Ymir, closer than Krista thought Hitch would dare. "You know, right? What's got his panties in a bunch? Tell me."

And Ymir leers through lowered eyelashes. When she replies her voice has sunk to thick velvet, a shade off carnal. "I'll tell you," she murmurs, "for a price."

Hitch's throat heaves, and the fear Krista saw before has resurfaced. "I think I'll just make him tell me." Then she springs from the bench, rushing for the double doors.

"You frightened her," Reiner says, his eyes lingering after Hitch. "Why do you scare people off like that?"

Ymir shrugs. "You don't seem afraid."

"That's not the point. Don't you get tired of being alone all the time?"

"Not particularly. It's not like I'm an angel." Ymir sips from her coffee that has surely grown cold by now.

Krista can't look Ymir in the eye, so she fixes her stare to a freckle on Ymir's hand. "I don't think anyone should be alone."

* * *

><p><strong>Armin<strong>

Armin hadn't had an appetite this morning, but when he reunited with Eren and Mikasa, his appetite found its way back to him. Now he regrets eating a full meal. He is afraid it might come back up on his way back to the dorm room. Annie didn't show up for breakfast. She is probably sleeping still, and Armin knows that if no one wakes her, she will sleep all day. He has seen this before; something has her stressed. Whenever she is mentally pressured, she will shut doors and sleep for hours on end, because sleeping is easier than facing the problem, and Annie is the kind of person who resorts to whatever is easiest. And Armin can speculate what has her frayed.

On his way, he trails his hand along the wall, awakening memories as if through touch. He thinks back, remembering Annie, remembering what sanctuary feels like: the familiar smells of cinnamon and candle wax, colors with blue undertones rather than golden ones, and the freedom to stretch his wings at any time. He passes a framed tapestry embroidered with the school's emblem: a set of silver wings arcing into each other, sharing feathers.

These halls don't feel the same. This place was home once, but now it feels distant and remote, the way an island _should_ feel, but Armin never felt that way on Evermore. He has heard other students whisper about him: _"_Isn't that Armin? Thought he was dead." Others asking, "Who's Armin?" And the reply, "You know, the nerd." Armin is reminded—and not for the first time—that he is the odd man out.

In the distance is the muss of a blond bun that Armin immediately recognizes. Annie is with a boy, incredibly tall, the kind of extraordinary height that draws eyes in the tumult of snarled traffic. His name is Bertholdt, and he has a gentle, open face, earth tones in his hair and eyes. He is bent close to Annie, holding a shorn white rose out to her, and Armin draws himself short, suddenly tasting copper. Annie looks at the flower a moment before taking it, bringing it to her nose, and breathing in the fragrant petals. Hiding behind the corner, Armin eavesdrops on what they are saying.

"I was wondering if you'd go to the carnival with me." Bertholdt's cheeks are a dull scarlet.

"What about Reiner?"

"He'd go with us, but you know him." Bertholdt gives a small laugh, a strained, insecure sound. "He's friends with everyone. He'll wander off." Bertholdt lifts a tentative hand, tucking hair that has fallen loose behind Annie's ear, his scarlet color deepening, and Armin finds himself clutched by a sudden, unknown resentment. "Just one night; one chance is all I'm asking."

Armin holds his breath for Annie's answer. His ears and chest burn for the sound of her voice. His nails bite into his palms, and his heart beats harder; he feels it in the front of his skull.

"Armin is…" She doesn't finish, but she has said Armin's name, which means she hasn't replaced him, and Armin feels relieved and guilty and guilty for being relieved. Paradoxes pile high. He breathes out, his vision temporarily going white, and he rolls weakly on the wall, listening past his thudding heart for the rest of their conversation.

Bertholdt's voice is intent. "It's been two years, Annie. Will you wait forever for him?"

Annie.

Why didn't she replace him? Why did she wait for him? Why doesn't she hate him? A thousand different whys and no answers.

"I don't need to," says Annie. "He came back last night."

"He's back?" It seems that is the last thing Bertholdt ever expected, and he is utterly dumbfounded. "That's—That's great! I'm glad for you. I'm glad he's okay." He sounds like he means it, but Armin catches the dim and disguised contempt lying underneath. It reminds him of the misleading firm glaze of ice just before it gives way under your feet. Bertholdt, Armin imagines, is struggling to keep it together, and Armin knows what it is like to slap on a smile, moments from cracking.

"I want to go to the carnival with him," Annie says, and Armin stealthily sneaks a glimpse around the corner in time to see her handing the flower back to Bertholdt.

"Please." Bertholdt closes her hand around the thornless stem, his hands easily enveloping hers—and Armin looks at his own hands, small, frail, nothing like Bertholdt's. "Keep it," he says, smiling when she nods. Then Bertholdt tells her that he hopes to see her around the carnival and sets off down the opposite corridor, looking longingly over his shoulder when Annie isn't watching, but Armin is, and his heart sags.

Bertholdt is more deserving of Annie than Armin will ever be, ever _could_ be. So why he heavily steps out from behind the corner and pads up to her is beyond him. Hearing his approach, Annie turns her head, and her eyes widen when she sees Armin; she hastily hides the flower behind her back, and Armin pretends to not notice.

"Armin." Annie's eyes are reflective like blue stained windows.

Armin's mouth has dried up, his hands are ice, and he slaps on a deceptive smile. "Hi, Annie." His finger twirls around a blue thread unraveling from his cardigan's sleeve. "I was on my way to wake you. You missed breakfast; I was worried."

"I wasn't hungry."

The thread wrings his finger like a noose, and he opens his mouth as if to say something, only to shut it again because he realizes he doesn't know what to say. Armin watches Annie watch him snap the thread free and drop it to the floor. Minutes pass in silence—or it could have been a few seconds, but it seems much, much longer.

"Why don't you go with Bertholdt?" The question has slipped right through Armin's teeth, and he feels blood rise in his face, but Annie merely looks at him, a question in her blue eyes. "To the carnival," Armin finishes reluctantly, the rising blood warming the tips of his ears.

She blinks slowly. "I want to go with you."

"Why?"

"You're my partner."

"No, Annie." His voice is almost soundless. "_Why?_"

Not a single emotion passes her face. Then she slaps the flower on his chest with enough force that a breath rushes out of him, and he thinks he can feel something crack and break, but that is undoubtedly his imagination. "Eight o' clock." Her tone is flatter than a sheet of glass. "Wear something warm." She shoulders past him, making him teeter on his heels and fumble the rose. He manages to keep it from falling.

The delicate, curling petals are softer than worn paper, and Armin thinks that at the rate he is going, he will end up like this rose: secondhand, passed along to someone else.

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Sacred Heart is a maze of corridors, identical and endless, and strewn with old-fashioned furniture, intricately carved, a lot of bronze and dark oak. Eren feels like he has jumped back in time to Victorian England. He notices repeating motifs such as wings and roses, angels and swords. The ceilings are high and chandeliered, fine glass lanterns spaced on the walls, flickering with candlelight.

The school itself is traditional, the students filling it, however, not so much. They are like the students of any other high school, with their stereotypical cliques. Outside, in the courtyard, all kinds of kids litter the yard. Eren and Mikasa stroll along, figuring in where they might mix. It would be easier if Armin were here to give them the rundown, but he had left to find Annie, which Eren supports 100%. He practically shoved Armin out the mess hall: "Yes, you should definitely go find your girl—I mean partner. Get outta here, Romeo."

Armin had looked floored. "What?"

A great marble fountain is at the heart of the courtyard—an angel with her wings and arms spread as if to say, "All are welcome." At the farthest end from the school is an oak willow. Its gnarled branches unfold over a large breadth of the yard, casting cool shadow. The clear green leaves are long and dripping from the branches like tear streaks, and beneath its canopy is a mingling group of four kids.

A short boy, wearing a black flat-brimmed hat that says _GET OUT _in white-boxed lettering, bobs his head as he strums a Fender acoustic guitar propped on his knee. A girl next to him sways her shoulders, snacking from a pack of Skittles, and her long ponytail swishes out of time with the music. It is streaked with turquoise, and the front falls into her wide brown eyes; she reflexively brushes it to the side.

On the other side of Shorty is a guy with two-toned hair and a long chin like a horse, and the last boy is dark-haired and freckled with a toothy smile. Horse-Face absentmindedly drinks from a Coca-Cola can, slouched against the tree trunk, a knee bent, and Freckles is leaning forward, watching Shorty's quick fingers scale the guitar's neck.

The music stops. "Yo, hit me." In response to that, Horse-Face packs a punch on Shorty's bicep, and he rubs his assaulted arm up and down, with a baffled look. "What the hell? I was talking to Sasha!"

Horse-Face smirks. "You should've been clearer." The smirk is so blatant and broad that it is obvious he knew Shorty had been talking to Sasha. Horse-Face nudges Freckles, encouraging him to laugh, and Freckles smiles without his teeth.

Shorty fingers a brief guitar riff. "That was a new song I just made. I'm dedicating it to you, and it's called, 'You're a Prick.'"

Horse-Face actually appears insulted. "Screw you. I'm not a prick."

"Yeah, and I'm not short." A beat of silence. "See? Nobody believes me, either."

This time Freckles laughs, smiling so wide that his eyes squint. "Connie has a point."

Horse-Face backhands his arm. "Shut up, Marco."

"Sasha." The short guy, Connie, closely watches Horse-Face as he repeats, "Hit me." When he doesn't receive a punch on the arm this time, Connie opens his mouth, and Sasha tosses a couple Skittles as if shooting into a goal. The pieces land smack-dab in the middle of his tongue, and he chews them up.

A twig snaps under Eren's sneaker, then something small and gray-colored dashes at him; he sees a fast wagging tail.

"No, Chip!" Connie shoves his guitar into Sasha's arms, scrabbling for the dog. Chip ambushes Eren's leg, pawing at his shin, and Eren bends down, scooping it up in his arms. It puts its forefeet on Eren's chest, its nails rubbing through his shirt, and its tail is a wiggling blur, as its wet tongue laps Eren's chin.

"That's—uh, not my dog. We found it." Connie has high-arching eyebrows, which give the impression that he is constantly up to mischief and make his lie that much more unbelievable.

"Shouldn't you be looking for his owners, then?" Chip flicks its tongue at Eren's mouth, and he turns his head away. He would rather not swap spit. Chip, however, seems to have other ideas.

"Okay, so maybe it _is_ my dog." Connie's voice is closed with caution. "I'll pay you to keep your mouth shut."

"Connie, we're broke. We spent the last on—" Sasha waggles her packet of Skittles.

"Alright, fine," says Connie, all business. "I can't pay you in money, but I've got"—he lists with his fingers—"half a bag of Dubble Bubble, an R2D2 thermos, Tears for Fears' debut album, a couple DVDs, a bottle cap collection—"

"Which DVDs?"

Connie's face loses some color. "_The Big Labowski_ and _Gladiator_."

"Both exceptional movies."

"Yeah, Russell Crowe's one good-looking guy. I'd ravish that man." Clearly Connie meant to be funny, but his voice lacks any laughter, and he abjectly toes the uniform green lawn.

"But I've already got copies." Eren doesn't really, but he wouldn't take someone else's DVDs, especially from someone who looks to be very attached to them. "And relax, I won't tell anyone about your dog."

That makes Connie perk up; he smiles. "His name's Chip. Potato Chip." Then he jerks his head at the girl with the turquoise in her hair. "Sasha's idea."

"What kind, Lays or Ruffles?"

"Pringles, actually," says Sasha matter-of-factly.

Eren makes a thumbs up. "Nice choice."

Chip attacks Eren's mouth again, and his reflexes aren't quick enough. Rough, wet tongue glosses Eren's lips. Cringing, he says a word that angels probably shouldn't say and scrubs his mouth viciously on his sleeve.

"He likes you," remarks Connie.

"Great." Eren hoists Chip up to look at his face. He has short, solid gray fur and eyes with flakes of gold. "I like you too, but I don't wanna make out. We can be friends." Ignoring him, Chip tries to lick his face again, and Eren reels back. "Don't do that." Then Mikasa scratches Chip between the ears, smilingly dotingly, and Eren gladly passes him over. Her eyes light up as she smothers Chip in butterfly kisses. Eren never knew Mikasa was an animal person.

"I'm Connie, and Sasha's my partner." Connie wears a yellow sweatshirt with a matte black cross printed in the middle. "What about you guys, you partners?"

Eren exchanges a look with Mikasa. Her chin is slimy with dog drool, and he cringes again. "No, we don't have partners." He shuffles away from her.

"Oh, fresh meat," says Connie with a sort of superior air. "Don't worry, they'll hook you up first day of class."

"Nice shot, by the way," Eren remarks. "That Skittles throwing was impressive."

"What, that?" Connie waves a dismissive hand. "That was nothing. Sasha never misses."

"You guys practice or something?"

"Those two are always tossing candy at each other," says Horse-Face. "And when I say always, I mean you can bet your bottom dollar they'll be sharing Skittles at the end of the world."

"Or M&M's," Sasha adds.

"Reload." Connie turns, opening his mouth, and Skittles fly in.

Eren gestures to the guitar propped on the tree by Sasha's elbow. "You sing too?"

"Nah, it's just me and that"—Connie hesitates—"instrument of music."

"Guitar," Sasha supplies.

"Right, yeah." Connie rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "The word slipped me just then." Eren hears Horse-Face garble out something that sounds like "idiot," but with so little volume and clarity that it also sounds like he could have said "brilliant."

The freckled boy, Marco, sits straight, his legs crossed. He is wearing a white crochet sweater with dark blue snowflakes on it. "What's your zodiac sign?" The question is aimed at Eren.

Horse-Face heaves an extravagant groan, tossing his head and hands at the same time for emphasis. "Dude, _stop_ with the astrology bullshit."

"You're just mad your description is spot-on." Marco shrugs lightly.

Horse-Face has an offended look. "You kidding? It couldn't be more wrong. I do not _have_ a short temper." Which can only mean Horse-Face really does have a short temper.

"I'm an Aries," Eren offers, wondering what his zodiac sign has to do with anything.

"Oh!" Marco grins all over his face, and Horse-Face smacks his own forehead in disbelief. "You're the same as Jean."

Connie's eyes are mocking. "I hope you're not as self-absorbed."

"I swear, Connie," Jean growls, "if I hear another wisecrack outta you—"

"We ask the man his sign," Connie cuts in, "but not his name? What are we, thugs?"

"Speak for yourself," Jean retorts.

"The shady-looking guy is Jean," Connie says, ignoring the indignant noise Jean makes. "And the delightful fellow with the sunny disposition is Marco. They're partners—but people only like Marco."

Jean clucks under his breath. "Asshole." Throwing his head back, he takes a long gulp of Coke the way drunkards drain their bottled beer.

Eren grasps Mikasa's shoulder. "This is Mikasa." Connie shakes her hand, reciting formalities, then prepares to do the same for Eren. "And I'm Eren." He pushes up the maroon sleeves of his thermal shirt and gives Connie a hearty handshake.

Connie raises a brow. "Like Eren Jaeger?" He curls his arms at the elbow, probably flexing his muscles beneath his long sleeves. "Angel of strength."

"Exactly." Eren keeps a straight face. "That's me."

"That's cool," Connie says airily. "My uncle's King Kong's cousin."

"You have interesting family."

Connie pokes Eren's chest with his finger. "It's more likely than you being Eren Jaeger."

Eren looks at him, perplexed. "What makes you say that?"

"Man, what rock have you been living under?" Eren wants to tell him that he has been living on an island, which is close enough to a rock in Eren's book. "Haven't you seen a picture of the guy?" Connie is incredulous. "He's massive. If anyone's King Kong's cousin, it's Jeager."

Eren just blinks, and Connie looks to Jean. "Hey, asshole, toss me my bag."

Jean sets stubbornly on the tree, molding himself there like a fungal canker. "Get it yourself." Marco slaps Jean's shoulder, then grabs a backpack with teddy bears on it, tossing it at Connie.

"Thank you, Marco." Connie slides the zipper open and paws through it, then draws a book, the same one Armin had on Evermore Island: _Mythology of the Divine and the Accursed_. He pages through, stopping then showing the article to Eren. "_This,_" he says with exaggerated patience, "is Eren Jaeger."

At the top is a heading that reads, "Eren Jaeger: Heaven's Miracle." There is a black and white picture—crosshatch shading—of a formidable man holding the sun, supposedly Eren, all bulging muscles and long hair, Greek god-worthy. Naked too.

"The heck?" Eren brings the book closer, staring hard at the V of his legs. "Where's my manhood?" The place where Eren's boy parts should be is flat. Below his washer-board ten-pack abs is a smooth plane of nothing. "They made every part of me giant, except the part that actually matters. What bullshit is that?" He fans through the pages. "What else's in here?"

By coincidence he stops on a page with a familiar name. "Hey, is that…?"

The page is titled, "Levi of the Accursed Ackerman Clan." Eren highly doubts there is another demon with a sacred name, so he knows it has to be the same Levi. Eren shows the page to Mikasa, who has her nose rubbing Chip's nose. "Ackerman? Is Levi related to you?" She confirms that he is, which Eren doesn't have trouble believing. They both have ethereal looks: sleek dark hair, porcelain skin, and small faces. They also have matching sticks up their butts. Eren skims through the first paragraph. "It says the Ackermans are cursed. What's that about?"

She puts Chip on the ground, and he wanders into Sasha's lap. "Long ago the Ackerman bloodline was damned to eternal punishment. When an Ackerman dies, their soul is sent to the underworld." Mikasa quizzically studies her hands upturned, like they sicken her. "I won't always be this way, though. I'll get my wings." She sounds like she is talking to herself rather than Eren. "Every demon is given a second chance at mercy. Levi wasted his; that's why he's not allowed past the academy's gates."

"How'd he waste it? What'd he do?

Mikasa rolls her eyes. "I don't know. Something foolish, probably. He's too stubborn, ruled by his pride."

"Are you sure that's what it was, his pride?" Sure, the guy is a bit smug, but Eren has the hunch Levi isn't so blinded by arrogance that he would damn his own soul.

Mikasa shrugs and leaves it at that.

Eren roves the illustration. The shadows and highlights are harsh, clashing against the paper like night and day. The Levi sketch has his swords gripped at his sides—the one in his right hand is held backwards, like it had been when he battled hellhounds. He is turned over his shoulder, staring off the page as if he can see into Eren's being, into his soul. His hair is frozen mid-sweep across his eyes, which are open wider than usual, abrupt and paralyzing, ringed by shadow, his mouth caught in a scowl, lips parted slightly. And he is draped in a mantle, bare-armed, solid indents and curves woven in gritty crosshatching down his muscle.

Chains surround his wrists to his elbows, symbolizing the Ackermans' curse. But even in chains Levi is indomitable, untouchable, irrepressible. _Overpowering_. There is a brush of warmth on the back of Eren's neck, and he whips his head around, expecting to find the very person that he is thinking of. He finds no one. Did he imagine it? The book starts slipping from his hands, and he fumbles the spine, but the book falls to the ground, wide-open, pages fluttering in the wind.

"Eren?"

"You okay?"

"Hey, Eren?"

Voices are talking to him, but Eren is gripped by an unexpected sense of dread, a sensation just under his ribcage. This isn't like Eren, little pieces of panic fluttering inside him. Not at all. He doesn't worry about anything.

"If he takes my soul, what then?" Eren's voice betrays none of his concern. "What will happen to me?" Why did it take this long for Eren to wrap his mind around the severity of this situation? Was he so overwhelmed yesterday that his mind couldn't comprehend that when he looked at Levi, he was looking at his own death? Eren doesn't want to lose his soul, even if he gave Levi his word.

The gentle way Mikasa looks at Eren makes the panic buzz in his head. "You'll be erased, cease to exist." She speaks gently. "But you shouldn't worry. The angels will—"

"What about Levi? How will it affect him?" Eren's voice comes out unevenly.

"Since your soul is in a poor state, he won't benefit from it. He won't get any stronger. He'll just gain your memories and the pieces making up who you are—your essence. They will be inside him. Forever."

Eren scrubs a hand through his hair roughly; a few strands tear free. "I still don't get why he wants my soul. He won't get stronger. It's a waste."

"I don't know—" Spinning on his heel, Eren sees that Armin has found them and dimly contemplates the recently attained flower in his hand. "Condemned to an eternity in the underworld? Perhaps what he wants is a bit of hope, even if it's just fragments or broken shards of it," Armin suggests. "To someone like him, that could be worth everything." That hangs thickly, mostly over Eren.

Then the noise of aluminum being crushed draws everyone's attention, and they watch Jean squeeze his Coke can into a crooked hourglass shape. "You're the real deal. You're Eren Jaeger." Jean is acidic with contempt, and he rises slowly to his feet, his mouth mashed lipless. Standing up tall as he can, he seizes Eren's shirt in both hands, thrusting him backward. "Fan-frickin'-tastic." Eren grapples Jean's wrists, pulling. "I'll knock your goddamn lights out."

Marco leaps to his feet. "Let him go, Jean." He clamps Jean's shoulder, his fingertips turning white.

But Jean doesn't let go. "You left us. You betrayed us." His grasp is tight; the threads in Eren's shirt-collar tear. "We needed you, so why the hell weren't you there?" Eren's fight to get free is halfhearted. He wants to know what he did to piss this guy off.

"He didn't betray you." Mikasa's tone is neutral. "He's on your side."

"If that were the truth," Jean rasps blackly, "he wouldn't have abandoned us in the first place."

Eren might not have his real memories, but he knows one thing for certain—"I _didn't_ abandon you."

"You know how many angels have died since you've been gone, angels that you could've _saved?_" Jean sounds less angry now than he does desperate.

Eren has two fists prepared at his sides. "Go ahead. Hit me. I _dare_ you." Because Eren will give it right back. Twofold.

The direct challenge makes Jean falter. Apparently he is all bark and no bite, and Eren realizes that, so he pushes Jean off, using more force than he intended. Jean stumbles into Marco, who stumbles into Connie, whose hat gets knocked off by Marco's elbow. Connie's head is shaved, baring a cap of brunette stubble, and his hands shoot to his head, as if he has been fully exposed. Eren feels a pang of guilt and fishes Connie's hat from the ground, dusting it clean, then hands it back to him.

"Thanks." Connie positions the hat so the bill tilts up and over his conniving eyebrows.

Eren gives a twitch of a half-smile then turns around, shoving his balled fists deep in his pockets, his shoulders pushed to his ears. Wordlessly, he leaves, with little Chip hard on his heels.

Mikasa starts after him, but Armin gently takes her wrist. "Wait, he needs to clear his head," he says quietly, "and Levi is the only person who knows what really happened two years ago."

Marco frowns, shaking his head at Jean like a severely disappointed mother. "You need a filter on your big mouth. You shouldn't have said that."

"Don't tell me you guys don't feel the same way." Jean's gaze shifts from person to person. "He _deserted_ us." His gaze stops on Connie. "He could've saved your parents."

Connie tugs his hat down, tight over his eyes. "Shut up, Jean. Nobody could've saved them."

"I get where you're coming from," Sasha meekly admits. "We've all lost people, but after seeing him in person—" She picks up Connie's open book, flipping to the picture of Eren. She traces the page ruminatively. "I always thought he was this colossal, godlike man. He's not, though. He's only a kid, no different from us." She closes the book. "I don't think we could ever understand."

* * *

><p><strong>Krista<strong>

"What do you normally do during the day?" Krista asks Ymir. They are walking down a sidewalk, passing a lush green courtyard, and she almost knocks into a boy who seems to be in a blind hurry.

"Sorry," he mumbles without looking at her. He continues on his way, hunched over like he wants to recede into the shadows, but it is a brilliant, sunshiny day, so that will be a difficult feat. The boy, Krista sees, is the one Ymir had called Eren Jaeger. His laughter has disappeared, and Krista is glad they didn't actually run into each other. She would have been flooded with his emotions, and it seems that he is a storm of bad feelings at the moment.

"I hang around," Krista hears Ymir say, and remembers that she has asked a question.

Krista brings her eyes back to Ymir. "Where?"

"I'll show you," Ymir says, with flashing eyes, "for a price."

Krista fidgets, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "What's the price?"

"Take my hand." Ymir holds out her hand, and Krista doesn't move. Ymir's lips are thin as if she is suppressing a smile. "I'll only show you if you take my hand."

Ymir's fingers are long and slender and inviting, but Krista's hands have become cold and clammy, and her whole body is tense. What would it be like to hold someone's hand? A question that she has asked herself more than once, something that she has dreamt about secluded in her sanctuary.

But she knows, the pain, the sorrow, the inevitable outpour of emotion that will immerse her heart. Krista moves her arm a little behind her, closing her hand into a fist.

"Are you afraid?" Ymir eyeballs her clenched hand.

"Yes."

Ymir's eyes glitter as if she is somehow satisfied. "And you're very right to be."

"It's not you that I'm afraid of," Krista says. "I'm afraid of your emotions. I'm afraid that they'll take me over. I'm afraid that one day I will meet someone too laden with anguish and heartache that I won't be able to bear it."

"But you've already held my hand once, remember?" Krista nods; she remembers it vividly. "And what'd you feel then?"

"Nothing." Krista sounds like she is asking a question, high-pitched with doubt.

Then Ymir's hand is out in front of Krista again, tempting her to take it, and Krista feebly does, squeezing her eyes shut. Nothing. Just like last night. Ymir makes a short sound that might be amusement or impatience and grips Krista's hand firmly, wrapping her up under her arm.

"Close your eyes." Ymir's voice is unexpectedly close to Krista's ear, and her heart stutters in surprise.

"You do that on purpose, don't you?" This time Krista doesn't speak in a question. She has no doubt that Ymir pulls tricks like casually whispering in people's ears to watch them squirm.

"I have no idea what you mean, Miss Goddess." Ymir drops her voice directly by Krista's cheek like silk, and Krista bites her lip, suppressing a shudder. She won't give Ymir a reason to laugh at her. "I'm still waiting for you to close your eyes," Ymir says with some sharpness.

Krista shuts her eyes, then a gust of wind bursts at her, quickly going static. The air has turned musty, mixed with dust, and she smells old cardboard. They aren't outside anymore. _Demon portals._ Ymir's arm unhitches from around her shoulders, and Krista takes that as the OK to open her eyes and survey the place. Save for the row of murky windows shedding tinted light into the room, it looks like a storage room, piled with taped up boxes, big and small, dusty from neglect. There is a tall floor lamp, covered with a sheet, and a few dilapidated desks haphazardly pushed in opposite directions as if someone has shoved them aside to pass between them.

Krista hears the crackling of a wrapper and sees that Ymir has produced a Tootsie Pop from out of her pocket. She pops the end into her mouth. "This used to be a music room before they renovated a bigger one on the second floor. Now it's used for storage."

"And you hang out here?" Krista looks around the filthy room, finding no reason she would want to stay. "Why?"

Ymir puts a finger to her lips, then raps a veiled object beside her. The impact of her knuckles makes a solid noise like wood. Then, with one sweep of her arm, she slips the sheet off, and it billows to the floor, unsettling a layer of dust. It is a mahogany piano, antiquated and rundown. The paint is chipped and dull, the keys yellowed like coffee-stained teeth, and there are a few gaps where keys are missing. Somehow, though, with all its imperfection it is a beautiful instrument.

"Had to tune it by ear," Ymir mutters. "Damn pain in the ass." Her lips are stained red with the sugary residue of the Tootsie Pop.

Krista edges between the bench and keyboard. "Can you play?" She lightly strikes a key, and a clear sound lofts to the air.

Ymir shrugs. "I can play, yeah." She is leaning on the windowsill, inspecting her flawless fingernails for any defects. "But I don't. Not for other people, anyway."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I play for myself, as in my ears only."

"Oh." There must be something in Krista's voice because Ymir glances at her. The afternoon daylight sparks starbursts in Ymir's irises. She peels herself from the windowsill and rewraps her half-eaten Tootsie Pop, pocketing it. Then, to Krista's surprise, she sits down on the bench.

"I'll play for you this one time."

"For a price?"

That makes the corner of Ymir's mouth curl. "Free of charge, to commemorate your first day at Sacred Heart."

She cracks her knuckles then sets her fingers on the keys. Her long, spindle fingers run the keyboard rapidly like spiders, and harmonious notes sing out, greater in number than Krista thought was possible for ten fingers. Is Ymir using demon magic?

The tune isn't happy or sad, serene or angry, fast or slow. It is ambrosial and fluid, one note melting into the next. Dim. Mysterious. Savage by design. Alluring all the more. A lot like Ymir. The music seems to grab hold of Krista, dragging her into heavy lethargy. Her eyelids slip lower and lower, the black and white keys blurring together in what feels like a dream. A river of images floods Krstia's mind: her sanctuary, moonlight beaming in. A gossamer curtain wavering. Loneliness, so much of it. Ymir manifesting before Krista. Ymir crouching in front of her. Ymir touching her hair, moving in closer, sugar-stained lips parting. So close, Krista can smell spices on her skin. So close, Krista might feel her heartbeat. So close…

Ymir's willowy fingers settle on a sweet, haunting sound that drifts by Krista's head, then her hands slide from the keyboard into her lap. "Music doesn't lie." Ymir's voice breaks Krista from her reverie. "Beyond the melody and lyrics is the truth. It's not something you can mask. It's there, plain as day."

"Is that why you don't play for others?"

Ymir's brow wrinkles, and her teeth show in a half-smirk, half-grimace. "No, that's not why. I don't do anything for anyone without a—"

"Price?"

"Got me all figured out, and it's only"—Ymir checks an imaginary wristwatch—"three o' clock. I need to work on my mystery-man image."

First Krista wonders how Ymir could possibly know that it is three o' clock, then she says, "Actually, I really don't know you at all. I'm not used to wondering what someone is feeling, but my power doesn't work on you."

"I can only imagine how frustrating that must be, never knowing what people are thinking, all of their true thoughts and feelings bottled up, forcing you to interpret their body language, facial expressions, and spoken word." There is a condescending edge to her tone, as Ymir drags a fingertip along the piano's frame with drowsy disinterest. "What a pain."

"How can I do all that when you bring nothing to the table?" Krista wrings her fingers in her lap. "You don't reveal much."

"It's quite the conundrum." Ymir's eyes are bright with an obscure malice. "You up for the challenge? It's not like anyone's keeping you here. Your choice."

"If I say yes, will that make us friends?"

That strange, bright malice dwindles. "You want to be friends with me?" Krista nods, and Ymir hits a sweet-sour key with the tip of her fingernail. It holds and holds and holds, thinning with each second, then Ymir lets the pedal up, and the note goes dead. Ymir is neither sweet nor sour; her voice is bland. "You're a conundrum yourself, Miss Goddess."

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

A chilly breeze makes the trees growing in the cemetery groan, and it finds its way into Eren's thermal, prickling his skin. Eren will have to go shopping for more clothing, heavier winter stuff. The closet Erwin provided is limited, and strangely every shirt has tailored slits at the shoulders. Eren reasons they are meant for wings, but he doesn't have any, so they act only as passages for the cold to leak through, like it is now for example.

Levi sits on top of a tombstone, a leg tossed over a knee, using a white cloth to wipe down one of his daggers; it reflects sunshine like ebony ceramic. Levi is wearing a brand-new black leather jacket, and Eren wonders if he bought this new one because of that little patch of blood he got on his other one. This new jacket has a gray hood attached to the inside, and he leaves the hood down, with the front unzipped, a white button-down shirt underneath. The collar is undone, displaying a strong throat and the pale hollow of his collarbones.

"Am I appealing to look at?" Levi bends his gaze at Eren. "You're staring."

Eren has plopped down on crunchy leaves. His legs are folded, his elbows on his knees, and his drawstring bag is nested by his thigh. "I was just thinking." He points to the tombstone. "Should you be sitting on Daniel Gregory's grave? That's probably the most disrespectful thing I've ever seen anyone do."

Levi readjusts himself, his boot smearing grime above the engraved name, and Eren winces, thinking that Levi just beat his own record for the most disrespectful thing Eren has ever seen anyone do. "I know that guy. Met him in Hell once."

Words are lost on Eren for a long minute before he manages to splutter, "You're kidding!"

"He told me I could use his grave however I wanted. It was very generous of him."

Eren snorts. "I don't know if I should laugh. I'll feel bad if I do."

"You can laugh at an old man's jokes. No one will kill you."

"Old?" Eren hasn't considered Levi's age before. It is hard to tell how old he really is. Twenty-three? Thirty-five? There is something ageless about him. He is so small that he looks young, but his stoic platitude makes him seem much older. The only clues to his true age are the sleepless bags that cut under his eyes.

Levi is fixated on his dagger, scrubbing the blade with desultory back and forth motions. "You're upset. It's all over your face. What's the reason?" An inlaid jewel glints at the hilt, shiny like a black beetle shell.

"I was wondering," Eren slowly says, "will I get my memories back?"

"Eventually."

"When?"

"When you find them."

Eren exhales in exasperation and picks at the weeds by his sneaker. "What do you mean?" His urgency is unmistakable in his voice, and Levi drags his eyes from his dagger to consider Eren more attentively.

He extends a hand and, with his forefinger, lightly taps Eren between his eyebrows. "Delve into that modest mind of yours. There can't be much strain inside that hollow head; you're sure to find something."

That doesn't help in the least, and Eren's frustration is honing into something painful in his chest. "What happened the day I summoned you?"

Levi shawls his dagger in the cloth and lays it on the edge of his knee. "When I surfaced, you had been removing your wings, and"—a pause—"you asked for a better life." That pause doesn't waltz past Eren. He knows Levi is intentionally hiding something.

"No." Eren looks steadily into Levi's face. "I need a play-by-play. Tell me exactly what happened."

"Did someone say something to you?"

Eren knows Levi is changing the subject but answers the question anyway. "Some horse-face said that I abandoned everyone. And I…" He doesn't want to finish the thought.

"Believed him?" Levi guesses.

Eren's gaze falls to his lap, where his hands lay wind-bitten and chapped. "Did I? Abandon them, I mean."

"I suppose some angels will look at it that way. But the ones who are better informed won't blame you."

"What do you mean better informed?"

"I don't imagine it was easy watching one of their own slowly waste away for their benefit. It probably did a number on their consciences." Levi closes his eyes halfway. "When you disappeared they didn't hunt you down like I thought they would. Keeping you hidden was relatively easy, considering the circumstances."

"What do you think? Do you think I abandoned them?"

"I think," Levi drags his words languorously, "it doesn't matter. You've returned, so what you do in the present time is most important."

Eren feels something loosen inside him, like a stretched rubber band on the brink of snapping, finally let go. Eren has been living in the past, trying hard to recollect his lost memories, but remembering what he did won't change what he is capable of now. The person that he used to be isn't who he is presently, and if he royally screwed up back then, Eren will just have to make it up this time around.

"Thank you." Emotion is thick in Eren's voice.

"For what?"

"For freeing me, for saving my life, for making me feel better." Eren hugs one of his knees, gazing up at Levi through his eyelashes. "Take your pick."

Levi doesn't look at him. "It's not without a price."

"I know, but I'm glad you're here with me." Levi's glance moves over Eren and then away, and his chin is stiff. "Now's the part where you say, 'I'm glad I'm here too, Eren. Your soul is absolutely mouthwatering.'" Eren watches for a twitch or a crack in Levi's still expression, but there is neither, and Eren turns, making himself industrially busy with rummaging through his bag, wishing he had kept his mouth shut.

Then something warm ruffles his hair—and Eren slowly brings his eyes up to Levi. His expression hasn't changed, but his eyes are limpid silver. "Idiot." Then he picks up his dagger again, starting over his neurotic cleaning drill.

"Look what I brought." Eren produces a can from out of his bag. "Voilà!" He juggles it in his hand, then shows Levi the label. "Chef Boyardee Overstuffed Ravioli. Beef, of course, because cheese is for girls—or Armin. He likes the cheese kind."

"Isn't there a mess hall that serves cooked meals? Why would you eat canned food?"

"Because it's loaded with artificial preservatives, which make it taste a hundred times better." Eren loops his finger through the aluminum tab for easy opening and peels off the top. "Actually the mess hall was closed, so I pinched something from the school's pantry."

"You stole that?"

"What?" Eren is appalled. "Of course not."

"I've never met an angel with the nerve to steal." Amusement vaguely shades Levi's tone.

"You know what they say: it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission."

Levi mulls that over. "I ask for neither."

Eren spoons the Chef Boyardee Ravioli straight from the can cold. "A day in the life of Levi Ackerman." He lifts the spoonful to his mouth—

"_Don't_ use that name."

Levi's vehemence startles Eren, and he freezes. "Huh?" Ravioli spills from his spoon, splattering back into the aluminum can.

"It's Levi." The vehemence has placated. "Just Levi."

"Okay, got it. Just Levi." Eren doesn't ask questions. A second time he spoons ravioli from the can, this time managing to get in a bite. Sauce dribbles out the corner of his mouth, and he sloppily licks it away, going in for another spoonful.

"You're supposed to warm it up." Levi looks mildly repelled.

Eren offers him the spoonful he was about to devour. "Do you want some?"

"No."

"Good, because these are man raviolis, and you have a kid-sized mouth. You might choke."

Levi narrows his eyes, his hair bizarrely drifting from his scalp as a field of static emerges—and Eren stretches a smile so wide that the apples of his cheeks push into his view. Then the static dissolves, Levi's hair settles, and he switches daggers, polishing his second one to a lustrous gleam. "You'd be surprised what can fit in my mouth."

"That sounded bad." The ravioli is a big lump in Eren's throat, all the way down.

"I didn't notice." It could be that Levi really hadn't noticed with what degree of concentration he has been giving his daggers. Eren bets if a hellhound were to appear in this moment, Levi would be too enthralled with his knife to react.

"So, what is that?" Eren slides closer to Levi's knee. "It looks like the knife Armin had, only his was white."

"What Armin had was an angel blade. This"—Levi sends the knife somersaulting above his wrist—"is a demon dagger." The blade rests against the inside of Levi's palm, the handle turned at Eren. The hilt has embossed finger grips, and the blade is the color of smoke from a raging fire, burning black. _Beautiful,_ Eren thinks, and then finds it a strange word to describe something so deadly.

Eyes moving uncertainly from Levi's face to the dagger, Eren reaches out, his fingers wrapping the hilt. He grasps it—and his hand explodes with white-hot pain. Instantly he flinches back, shouting and cursing. His fingers tremble, and the palm of his hand is marbled with a rash of flame. "It burnt me," he hisses, and watches with distant amazement as the burn gradually fades like footprints washing away on the beach.

"Angels can't wield demon weapons," Levi explains, "and vice versa. The powers are incompatible with one another." He glides his thumb down the dagger and then gives Eren a steady sidelong look that makes Eren wish he had remembered to comb his hair this morning.

Eren casts his eyes skyward. Clouds are closing in, and he absently thinks that it might rain later. "The war Commander Erwin was talking about," he says, "is the infinite battle of Good versus Evil, right? And you've been fighting in my stead." Eren's eyes are drawn back to Levi's face as if on reflex. "Does that tip the balance or whatever?"

"I don't know," Levi says dismissively.

"What do you mean you don't know? You should know." Eren winces inwardly when he realizes he sounds like a chiding mother. "That's important stuff, like, earth-shattering important."

"Whether Heaven or Hell prevails isn't my concern."

"How can you say that?" Eren's voice is shrill with incredulity. "The fate of the world depends on the outcome."

"I said"—Levi's words are precise—"it _isn't_ my concern."

"Then whose side are you on? Because it sounds like you're straddling the fence."

"I'm not on anyone's side." And with that the fickle integrity of a demon shows through.

Anger flares in Eren with surprising ferocity. "You can't stand on the sidelines!" He slams his hands on the ground; his raw knuckles crack bloody. "You have to _choose!_" And as far as Eren is concerned, there is only _one_ right choice.

Levi then raises his shoulders. The clouds are condensed overhead, leaden and impenetrable; no light shines through. "Want me to make a choice?" Levi is calm, scary-calm like the air just before a twister rips through. He wears no expression, but something dark gathers in the backs of his eyes, much like the clouds overhead. He whips his dagger—a blur of movement—positioning it on Eren's throat. The flat side presses against Eren's Adam's apple, the verge threatening the underside of his chin.

Levi is arched above Eren, his hair falling to the outer corners of his eyes, which have turned practically colorless, like a hard sheen of ice. "If I choose the underworld, then I will have to kill you. It will be easy. Simple. However"—his voice plunges even lower; Eren stops breathing to hear him—"if I side with Heaven, I can _never_ return to the underworld. I will rot here until my blood runs still and my skin peels from my bones. Ultimately, I will die in excruciating pain, my soul lost in neither Heaven nor Hell. Sounds to me that the first choice is preferable." Eren swallows, and the dagger dents his windpipe. Then Levi pulls away, averting his gaze. "Don't tell me to choose a side, because the choice I should make is clear."

Eren's heart is in drumming flight. He takes a stabilizing breath and brushes his throat, where he still feels metal pressing down. "If killing me is so damn easy, then why don't you just do it?" He sounds more composed than he really is.

"I told you. I want your soul." Levi is calm as ever.

"That doesn't even make sense. Mikasa said my soul is damaged. Why do you want it so badly?"

Sitting back and propping his shoulders on the tombstone, Levi stares off at the graves, lazily running the dagger's threshold over his knuckles, and Eren wishes Levi wouldn't do that; he can see blood clustering under Levi's pale skin as if anticipating a nick. Levi's tone is flatlined. "Who knows."

* * *

><p>How to Attract Capricorn (Levi's sign):<p>

Make them laugh; they tend to be melancholy, so anyone that can make them laugh is appreciated. Talk about anything but don't pry into their emotions. They don't mind listening to yours however. Talk about serious topics, things that matter and avoid unconventionality. They are very conventional people and don't like shock-topics. They like gifts, not gaudy and expensive but practical and useful. Keep it high class. They don't like second-rate gifts, or dates for that matter. Plan an upscale date to an art gallery, theater, or fancy restaurant. Never be late. Capricorns are very punctual and live by a schedule. They don't like to be kept waiting. It shows irresponsibility. Be patient with a Capricorn because underneath that aloof, indifferent outside lies a physical, passionate loyal person that will come out once you have proven yourself.

How to Attract Aries (Eren):

Let Aries know that you admire them. They thrive off admiration and followers. Let them know that you love their zest for life and that you find them intriguing; they love compliments more then most other astrology signs of the zodiac. Compliment them physically and mentally. They like conversation about intellectual topics and engage them in a lively discussion. They love the challenge and the stimulation of good, intelligent conversation. Remember, Aries is the first sign of the zodiac and the most forward and independent; they love followers. Don't be a push over or keep your opinions to yourself, because Aries will quickly get bored if you agree with everything they say. Don't attempt to control them. They don't like taking orders. Aries are very capable people, so if you go with their plans, you are sure to have a good time! If they have a suggestion for something to do, go with the flow. They like to be in control of what goes on.


	4. Carnival Part One: Mirrors

This chapter is RIDICULOUSLY long. I'm not even going to say how many words it is. I AM SO, _SO_ SORRY! So much happened that I didn't even fit Ymir and Historia in. I'm opening with them next chapter.

I also did something that I hate to read in other fanfictions... I added original characters. _Two_ of them. Ugh, I'm really ashamed of myself, but these characters will only show up at the carnival, and they're villains...sort of. I made up Lilith's character to torture Ymir specifically, so that's what you're in for next chapter. A third character that I mention isn't my character. He's a reference to another book, Lauren Kate's _Fallen_ series.

This chapter is so horrible that I added **WARNINGS: **

Mild horror, mild violence/gore, mild sexual assault (is any sexual assault mild, though?), sexual themes, strong-ish language, ANGST (as always)

After this chapter I won't be surprised if people unfollow/unfavorite. I feel bad about writing something so terrible, but it's how I imagined this story to go from the start.

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Eren is having another dream. He is no longer in his sanctuary, though his shackle is heavy around his ankle still. He is at the edge of the world, some place of in-between. The sky is dark and empty; the land is of parched hardpan earth, shattered like a windowpane, stretching beyond and behind. Rain patters the ground, hissing like radio static, and beads cling to Eren's eyelashes like teardrops. The rain smells like blood.

A man stands before Eren. Ash-black hair plasters wetly to his temples, framing a face that is small and filled with sharp angles.

Levi.

He is shirtless, baring a pale chest marred and ignited with symbols in a shape that resembles chain-links. But after a second look, Eren sees that it is demon script, glowing like orange embers through the drizzling rain. Curses of fire coil his wrists to his shoulders, around his torso—and up his neck, wrapping into his right cheekbone. But that isn't why Eren draws a sharp breath. Gilded wings extend from Levi's shoulders, and Eren has never seen gold feathers before.

"You told me to choose a side." Levi is barefoot, and his ankles show under his gray trousers. "But I've already chosen." He pulls back his golden wings and lowers to a knee. "I am Levi, the strongest creature of the underworld, bound to Lucifer and Marked with the Ackerman curse. And it is you, Eren Jeager, Heaven's Miracle, who I have chosen to pledge my loyalty and strength to for the rest of my eternity."

For a long time, Eren is wordless, staring at Levi and watching the rain trickle down his face and along the band of muscle prominent in his throat. Then Eren sinks to his knees in front of him, slumping so that their gazes are leveled. "I'm…nothing, just a servant to the Throne." He jiggles his shackle as testimony. "I have nothing to give you. I don't even have a shirt that you could wear." Rainwater streams Eren's face, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. It reminds him of crying, which he doesn't think he has ever done.

Levi bows his head, his dripping hair falling forward. "Being at your side," he says quietly, "is more than enough."

When Eren opens his eyes, blinking away the inconceivable image behind his eyelids, he is sleeping against a car window. Rain patters lightly against the glass, and the headlights of other cars roaring down the highway streak blearily past. How long has it been since they left the academy? He wants to move, but he feels a weight against his shoulder. He swivels his head to the side, and something tickles his chin. It is someone's hair; someone has fallen asleep on his shoulder.

Eren adjusts himself forward marginally. A passing headlight beams in through the window, casting against the sharp angle of Levi's jaw and down the slope of his slender neck, going dark again, and Eren feels an inexplicable impulse to sweep the hair from out of Levi's eyes. How strange, Eren thinks, to want to touch the demon that will devour his soul.

There is a blinding flash. A monstrous blue spot lingers in Eren's vision, and once it fades, Petra's profile, twisted around in the passenger seat, takes form. Smiling into the screen, she holds up her phone and uses her fingers to enlarge an image.

"What—," Eren starts. "Did you just take a picture?"

The screen sheds a faint light over Petra's face, making her eyes twinkle strangely in the dark. Her smile, however, is distinctly tender—the same smile Mikasa had given Chip. "Delete it!" Eren groans.

Petra's brow puckers, and her voice when she speaks reminds Eren of the way his kindergarten teacher would talk to him during class, in what Eren calls "the baby voice."

"I haven't seen him sleep before. I didn't know he could." She smiles in wonderment at Eren. "He must feel at ease when you're with him."

"It is strange," Mikasa remarks from the opposite side of the backseat. She is staring out the window with her chin propped in her hand. "It's unlike him to lower his guard."

"He doesn't have a very pleasant sleeping face," Petra murmurs with a tenderness that makes Eren question her relationship with Levi. A crush? "His anguished expression isn't cute at all." But Petra's eyes are glued to the picture as if spellbound.

"Give me that!" Oluo snatches Petra's phone, and his finger jabs at the screen with excessive force. "I'm your partner. You can't have pictures of other men."

Petra's words come out disconnectedly. "What—don't break it. Oluo! Stop, that's—Wait! Don't delete it, you idiot!"

Oluo hands her the phone. "Done." And Eren has never heard that much satisfaction packed into one word.

Petra mopes sorrowfully at the blank screen. "My picture…"

Ponytail, whose name is actually Eld, is driving the car, and his partner Cowlick, Gunther, is sitting in the very back seat. Eren catches Eld's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Are we almost there?" he asks.

Eld smiles. "Look for yourself."

The windshield gives out onto a parking lot. Men in reflective vests marshal a string of cars, gesticulating with their lighted orange beacons to numerous gates. Eld follows their motions and parks in a grass field. He turns the key, and the engine shuts off.

Eld gauges Eren's reaction through the mirror. "Welcome to the funfair, Eren."

Looking out the window, Eren observes a chain-link fence, but more thrilling are the glitzy lights and operating rides behind it. An enormous Ferris wheel with flashing multicolored bulbs punctures the night sky. It slowly turns and challenges the pale moon for splendor.

"So…" Gunther's voice lofts from behind them. "Who wants to wake up Levi?"

No one volunteers, and from the apprehensive looks around him, Eren can tell that he isn't the only person Levi intimidates. Eren turns his head and gazes at Levi's face, pondering a moment the crease between his narrow eyebrows, his stubby black eyelashes, and the circles under his eyes, which appear lighter than Eren remembers.

Then Mikasa elbows Levi in the side, and his eyes shoot open, sharpening into slits. A bolt of surprise goes through Eren at their abrupt silver color. Through the screen of his eyelashes, Levi's eyes are illuminated pewter crescents. But when Levi turns his head, looking at Eren directly, they have gone dim.

"Your eyes were glowing," Eren says, and is surprised that his voice comes out unsteady.

"Tonight's a full moon," Levi tells him, "which means there's a spike in demonic energy."

He reaches over Eren for the door's handle, and Eren is unusually conscious of Levi's other hand holding his knee. They slide out, and Levi closes the door behind them. The rain shower didn't hit this area; the browning grass is dry and brittle and crunches beneath Eren's sneakers as they walk to the entrance.

"I'm confused," Eren announces.

And Levi, a pace behind him, deadpans, "How shocking."

Eren knows he framed the perfect set-up for that one and lets it slide. "Should we be here if there's a rise in demons? Wouldn't it be safer behind the academy's wards?"

"Humans are highly susceptible to demonic forces," Eld explains, "and it's an angel's duty to protect them from what they're unable to see. With that in mind, our students are here to watch over human students"—he grins at Eren—"and have some fun while they're at it."

Petra walks close to Eren's side. "And we're here to watch over you, Eren, and make certain that you're unharmed. You don't have to worry. You can enjoy yourself." She is serious like having fun is vitally important.

Eren laughs. "I think you're the worried one."

"Don't give us too much trouble, you little shit," Oluo snaps, as he readjusts his new black leather jacket; it has a gray hood like Levi's. "Or you'll force me to take disciplinary measures." Eren rolls his eyes, unmoved by the threat.

Petra glances at Levi. "You could go with Eren. Carnivals may not be your idea of fun, but—"

"That's not a good idea." Levi has his arms folded and sounds cold, but Eren thinks it is unintentional. "My face is too recognizable."

Petra's honey-colored eyes fix to her brown boots, and she tucks a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. "That is true." Her body angles in to Levi, and Eren smiles at them. She is small and just Levi's size and so obviously in love with him.

Eld lets loose a trilling whistle to get their attention. He is at the entrance with Gunther and Mikasa where there are turnstiles chipping red paint, leading into the festival grounds. "Let's go. We've got work to do."

"If you change your mind," Petra says without moving her eyes from her feet, "I don't think it would cause too much trouble for you to stay with Eren and Mikasa." Then she peeks through her hair at Levi's face. "We've got your back; you can trust us."

"Your superior is waiting," Levi says impassively. "You should obey orders." And Eren almost wants to kick Levi in the shin if he didn't think Levi would reciprocate with a vengeance.

"Yes, right." Then Petra briskly turns to Oluo, following Eld and Gunther through the turnstiles, while Mikasa straggles behind and waits for Eren.

"Women," Eren says, bending a smirk at Levi, "you're terrible with them."

Levi's brows draw together. "What makes you say that?" The question is remarkably sincere.

"Ah—" Eren gives him a baffled look, then shakes his head. "Never mind." How long was Levi trapped in the underworld? The man has no social awareness.

"Do something for me." Levi fishes through his jacket pocket, and when his hand reappears, a folded twenty-dollar bill is wedged between his fingers. "Buy cotton candy for Mikasa."

"Mikasa doesn't like cotton candy."

That seems to put Levi at a loss, and he crosses his arms, diligently inspecting his laced-up combat boots. "Well, then, what does she like?"

"Mm…," Eren drums his fingers against his chin as he considers the question. "I'm pretty sure she likes funnel cake."

"Get that."

Eren pockets the cash and then nudges Levi with his shoulder. "Come with us. The three of us could share a funnel cake; they're big enough."

Levi doesn't smile. "It'll be best if I'm not there."

"Why?"

"Mikasa, she…" Levi's eyes are remote, staring at something just beyond Eren. Something that isn't there. Then his hands slide into the pockets of his jacket, his expression unreadable. "She's not my biggest fan."

"She's Mikasa. Don't take it personally." But Eren's voice is pitched too high; his lie is unmistakable, and he winces, wishing he weren't so damn honest. Eren realized how vehemently Mikasa disliked Levi when she kept repeating, "the angels will kill him" as if the thought appeased her. "She's just, you know, reserved." _Not unlike you_, Eren silently adds.

"She is that," he agrees, then looks Eren in the eye. "Call my name if you find the reason to, but make it a _good_ reason."

"Define good reason."

"If you question whether it's a good reason," he says, "it's not a good reason." Then, almost tentatively, he raises a hand and touches Eren's temple just below his hairline. "But I wouldn't put it past your vacuous head to believe the simplest reason is a good one." His tone is patient. Then there is a silent moment in which Levi's eyes stay on Eren's, while the back of his fingertip ghosts the side of Eren's face—so delicately that Eren almost might have imagined it if not for the static grazing his skin.

Then shadows surround Levi like a vapor, evaporating to nothing at all. Eren is standing alone in the grassy parking lot, startled and dazed, his cheek tingling slightly.

After pushing past the turnstile with Mikasa in the lead, Eren hears laughter, the ringing of calliope music, and the _ding-ding-dings _of carnival games. He soaks up the strong aromas of caramel and buttered popcorn. Game booths, candy vendors, and fast-talking carnies clog a crowded midway. A roller-coaster, bumper cars, a fun house, a kissing booth, so many activities; Eren doesn't think the four hours they are limited to is enough time to do it all. 12:00 a.m. and it is gates closed.

Steady streams of teenagers stroll from one booth to the next, carrying funnel cakes and stems of cotton candy, and Mikasa is silent as they amble in no particular direction, zigzagging through the crowd. She looks a million miles away, holding onto the red muffler scarf around her neck like a lifeline. Her eyes are so dark that Eren can't define the pupils from the irises.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She blinks, called back by his voice, and then offers a vague smile. "I was just thinking about you and Armin. We were like a family on Evermore. I'm going to miss that."

"Mikasa," Eren says, and she looks at him expectantly. "I was wondering; what do you have against Levi?"

A shadow passes her expression, and she stares hard at the ring toss game ahead of them. "Nothing. Why?" A crowd breaks into cheers, as a boy manages to ring the neck of a glass bottle.

"You hate him. Did he do something to you?"

"I don't want to talk about this." Mikasa's voice has plunged low and cautionary.

Eren knows that he shouldn't push her any further but can't help himself. "I can see there's bad blood between you two," he says earnestly, "but he's your family, Mikasa. You should—"

She wheels on him sharply. "We may be a part of the same bloodline, but he will _never_ be my family." Her eyes are infinitely dark, and then Eren understands that the bad blood won't dissolve overnight. It is going to take time. "As far as I'm concerned, you and Armin are the only family I have." Then she marches full-steam towards a booth, and with concentrated attention watches a gold fish swimming in a plastic bag.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, Eren puffs out a hard breath that mists in front of his face. "Girls," he sighs to himself. He doesn't understand them. Then he jams his fists in his pockets and trudges after her.

She tracks to another booth, and a woman with a graying-black cascade of hair stops her short. The woman is wearing something of an indigo cloak, with glittering jewels stitched into the thin fabric; a hood sags around her face.

"I can sense something troubles you," she says, taking Mikasa's hand in her knobby ones. "There is blight upon your heart." The skin of her face is crumpled like a paper bag.

Mikasa looks unsettled. "Blight? But I…"

"You must clear it, child." She draws Mikasa towards a tent that is veiled with a beaded curtain. "Come, come, and I will cleanse the disease of which poisons you."

Eren seizes Mikasa's other wrist. "She's full of it, Mikasa. Don't listen to her."

With a swish of her cloak, the woman turns on Eren, and her bony finger goes out to him in a reproachful wag. "How dare you speak that way about me!" Her voice is like the wheeze of a dying breath. "It's time for you to wake up, little boy, and look in the mirror. What you see is what you are; it is no illusion. Nobody can save you, least of all _him_."

"Who are you even talking about?" Eren demands, and then bites his tongue, internally scolding himself for yelling at a senile old woman.

"You know exactly whom I speak of." She brings her face close; she smells of mothballs. "The man who will burn with you and set flame to your lovely, untouched skin. He will taint your chaste blood irreversibly."

Mortified, Eren feels his face redden. He growls under his breath. "My—chaste blood, or whatever you want to call it, is none of your business."

She smiles; there is a gap in her bottom row of teeth. "You are far from frigid. I can see passion that burns fiercer than an inferno inside of you." She lightly strokes the side of his face, starting at his temple, sliding lower, and Eren swallows, suddenly remembering a similar touch. "And he will be the one to draw it out."

Gritting his teeth, Eren pulls himself from her worn, leathery hand. "Let's go, Mikasa. She's insane." He will not listen to another preposterous word coming from her wrinkled mouth.

"I…," Mikasa hesitantly begins, "want to hear what she has to say."

He turns to her, frowning in disbelief. "You're kidding." Mikasa isn't looking at him. Her chin is set, and Eren makes a short, irritated sound. "Fine. Whatever. Let an old hag fill your head with lies."

Mikasa's black hair veils her eyes, and she draws her muffler over her chin. "You're one to talk." Her tone is flat, and Eren hears a semblance of Levi's voice in her, which makes him want to laugh, even though there is nothing funny about what she has said.

Eren's expression goes still. "Nice, Mikasa. Real nice." Then he stalks off and doesn't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Mikasa<strong>

Mikasa knows she had been horrible to Eren, but she needed to get him out of the picture. This woman is a fortuneteller, a real one, with powers given to her by Lucifer himself, his own lover: Lilith. She is wearing a false skin, but Mikasa can see her true face—an evil and treacherous beauty like a red rose with needles for thorns.

Lilith has the ability to tell Mikasa how to rid herself of the darkness festering inside her. Day by day Mikasa can feel it burning away at her slowly, giving her haunting nightmares that make her feel as though she is losing herself, drifting like daylight. If she doesn't bring it under control, she will be imprisoned in the underworld, and she can't let that happen. Her troubles don't involve Eren; they will only cause him worry. She has to do this on her own.

They sit in wooden chairs at a clothed table; a crystal ball is mounted in the center. Lilith's slim arms rest on the cloth. She wears a glove on her right hand, and her right wrist bares a black and silver chain. At one end is the shape of a snake's head and at the other end is the tail, circling her glove in a coil. Raising her arm, Lilith hovers her fingers over the crystal ball. A tempest of fog churns inside the glass, opaque and turbulent.

Coal black hair and eyes like blue crystal, Lilith smiles sweetly at Mikasa. "First you must remember the reason for your plight; it all begins at the end."

"You're going to show me my mortal death," Mikasa says.

Lilith's smile seeps venom like the fangs of a viper. "Look deep into the mist, and empty your mind. The storm will clear away when you are ready."

Shutting her eyes, Mikasa imagines the sky of Evermore, endless and cloudless blue. When she lifts her eyelids, the silvery mist inside the crystal ball parts and concaves into a living image. Mikasa's mind is sucked inside, and she can't feel the wooden chair beneath her anymore. She experiences the memory as if in real time.

Her body is heavy as lead, anesthetized, and she hears blurred sounds as if her head is submerged in water. She hears a beeping noise at a slow frequency, a rushing hiss of air like simulated breath. Then she hears voices, composed but urgent.

"She is unable to breathe on her own, and her vital signs are steadily failing," a woman says. "I'm afraid she can't help you identify the attackers. You said they took another child, the boy who phoned the police?"

"Yes, ma'am," says a man. "Armin Arlert, same age, and at the scene of the attack. There was also a body, another boy named Er—. He'd been a runaway from the local mental institute, diagnosed with a minor case of schizophrenia and had a reputation for jumping into fights. Apparently, during their recess hour, this girl walked by, and he went berserk, started shouting that she was going to die. Somehow he got out—and no one saw him till they found his body a half-hour later. Looks like he interfered, took a few bullets and bought her some time. If it weren't for him, she would be dead right now."

"How awful." The woman sounds devastated. "People who would hurt children… I don't understand it. They make me sick to my stomach."

"Believe me, ma'am, eventually people like that answer to a greater power. It's uncanny, though, how that kid Er— knew this girl would be attacked. I've never come across a situation like this before. Makes me rethink some things."

The voices fade, and Mikasa struggles to crack one of her eyes open. Her eyelid parts with some difficulty. She is in a hospital, she sees, and at the corner of her room a shadow lurks, hazy and murky. The form of a man gradually takes shape, like a processing photo in a darkroom. The silhouette is familiar but unfamiliar as if she is looking into a distorted mirror, seeing parts of herself—the savage parts that she hates the most—developed before her. He looks like he is about to do terrible things, very terrible things indeed. Shadows streak his face, and his eyes—

Deadly like blades.

He has in his hand a black dagger, rotating it slowly between two fingers and his thumb, caressing almost lovingly, and Mikasa hears the beeping of her heart monitor speed up. The man turns. Shadows draw down his profile like long claws. His lower lip bends under his teeth, his face blazes darkly, and—

He disappears.

The world has fallen away beneath her. The heart monitor has flatlined. She knows that she is dead, but how can she be dead when she knows that she knows? How is it that her heart has stopped beating, but here she is pondering the absence of its pulse?

_"Mikasa Ackerman,"_ she hears a voice like serrated razors, _"of the Accursed Clan. Depart into eternal damnation."_

Metal links wrap her arms, coiling around her wrists to her elbows like cold serpents, constricting her, imprisoning her. A scream has built in her chest, but it just swells like a blister filled of pus and blood with no relief. Then she is dragged down and down and down…

Pulled through infinite emptiness.

Silence drowning out her thoughts—

Only darkness inside darkness.

And then she learns that there are some things much worse than death.

Mikasa leaps backward, tripping over the chair, falling flat on her tailbone. The tent tosses above her, and she screws her eyes shut. Her mouth is salt. Blood and breath roar in her ears. A violent tremor convulses through her like a seizure. Then she is still as stone.

"Goodness, dear! Look at your arms!" Lilith's voice is sugarcoated with concern.

_Her arms?_ She brings them above her. Spidery demon script winds her forearms, spilling into her flesh like black ink, the Ackerman curse. She scrambles to her feet, stumbling, hitting the side of the tent. "No." Her voice is cracked. Mikasa swore to herself that she would be the first Ackerman to break the curse. She will earn forgiveness and mercy; she will be blessed with wings. She won't be like the others. She won't be like Levi.

Throwing back the beaded curtain, she tears out the tent, driving straight into Eren's shoulder. They both trip, and Eren grapples her upper arms, supporting her.

"Mikasa?" His eyes are wide with alarm. "What happened?"

"My arms, they're—" She holds out her forearms, and they are bare. The curse has faded to nothing more than a nightmare.

Eren glances down, cupping her hands in his warm ones. "They're what?" His voice is gentle.

Mikasa lets her hair tumble over her eyes and draws her sleeves down over her wrists. "Nothing."

* * *

><p><strong>Armin<strong>

"Look, it's the guys from _Smelly Fart_," sneers a human boy, and his friends erupt into laughter like it is the funniest thing they have ever heard.

Armin, Annie, Reiner, and Bertholdt make it to the carnival just in time to see friction between their school and another school spark like explosives. Jean, Marco, Connie, and Sasha are the butt of the scorn.

Jean, affronted and red-faced, stomps forward with fists at his sides. "It's Sacred _Heart_," he barks out.

The boy who had made the pun shrugs. "Tomayto, tomahto." He has a shock of bright red hair, gelled into a short mohawk. Rather than being tall, he is stocky with square shoulders and a mean-looking face like a bulldog.

"It's that punk from Rosemary," grumbles Reiner. Rosemary High, Armin recalls, was known for their extreme distaste of Sacred Heart even before he left. Looks like nothing has changed. "He stirred up a lot of trouble last year," Reiner goes on. "Better break it up before he pushes Jean's buttons too far." Reiner clasps Bertholdt's shoulder, steering him to the heart of the commotion, which seems to be the very last direction Bertholdt would like to go. "Let's go, Bertholdt."

They snake their way past Sasha, who is nervously chewing on her thumbnail, and then they come to Connie and Marco, who have their elbows ringing Jean's arms, keeping him from lunging.

"Got to be a faggot," the Rosemary boy spits at Jean and Marco, "or a midget"—shot at Connie—"to get in Sacred Heart, looks like."

Connie lets go of Jean's arm to push his sleeves up his elbows. "I'll use your damn toilet brush hair to scrape the puke off the Gravitron!"

The boy looks perplexed and touches his spiky mohawk. "Toilet brush hair?"

"There's no need for that, Connie," Reiner breaks in. "I'm sure they have buckets of bleach for messes like that." Once Connie resigns at his arm rather unwillingly, Reiner flashes a smile at the Rosemary boy, and it is a fierce smile. It reminds Armin of the way a lion will defend its pride with a flash of terrifying teeth. "You're Tristan, if my memory serves me right."

Tristan's beaming confidence dwindles like a dying candlewick as he sizes up Reiner, and then Bertholdt behind him. "I don't remember your name, but you're the student body president, I think."

Grinning, Reiner wraps his arms around Connie and Jean. "The name's Reiner, and how about we settle this dispute over a round of bumper cars; what do you say?"

Tristan gives a curt nod without protest, knowing that he is outsized. "Fine. See you there." Then his eyes trail past Reiner and Bertholdt to Armin and Annie. He holds Armin's gaze longer than necessary. Picking out the weak one, Armin guesses. Then Tristan pivots, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his red jersey jacket, and shuffles off. Armin turns his head, his eyes tracking to Annie, and sees that she is watching him.

"I won't get involved," he tells her. "You know I don't like conflict."

She puts her hands inside her gray pullover. "I want a candy apple."

Armin scans the grounds then points. "There's a food stand over there." A rectangular booth adorned with flickering lights has giant words painted in red and blue: Fresh Carmelcorn, Cotton Candy, and (of course) Candy Apples.

They scuffle through the swarm of people. Armin gets shoved around, but Annie finds her way through more easily. Armin figures it is because she is small. After colliding with a particularly hard shoulder, practically knocking Armin to the ground, Annie tells him to wait by the merry-go-round, and so he does, feeling rather lowly about himself while he does it.

He thinks about Bertholdt and how he would have towered over that crowd. Those people would have parted like the Red Sea for him, and he could have gotten Annie a candy apple, no problem. But Armin isn't Bertholdt or even close to being like Bertholdt.

He rests against the railing surrounding the ride, not quite sitting but not quite standing either, and watches the carousel rotate, the plastic horses moving up and down their poles. The calliope music is how Armin imagines the soundtrack to a child's dreamland would be, upbeat and loud, and then Armin hears something below the treble that makes him drop those miserable thoughts about Bertholdt and listen more intently. It sounds like the hissing of a snake—or the ghosts of voices. Closing his eyes, he lets everything but the music fall away.

Words. The voices are whispering in demon language, and Armin has studied the language enough to understand what they are saying:

_"Wake up. Look in the mirror. This is no delusion. Here, listen closely." _Armin leans over the rail, concentrating harder. _"Watch as Hope bleeds, you human fiends. Tonight, he will cease to be, the devouring—" _

A hand clamps Armin's shoulder. He gasps, his eyes flying open and his heart jumping to his throat.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." It is the Rosemary boy with the red mohawk, the one whom Reiner called Tristan. "You're from Sacred Heart, right?"

Breathing hard, Armin slumps against the rail, his shirt sticking to his back with cold sweat. His heart thrashes against his ribcage, and his hands tremble. He grips them together to calm the shaking.

"You okay?" Tristan's bulldog face looks concerned.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Armin's voice is thin, and he breathes deeply through his nose. Once he recollects himself, he glances at Tristan and tenses. He doesn't know which is worse, hearing demon voices or being pummeled to a pulp.

Armin waits for Tristan to puff his shoulders or throw insults, something to intimidate Armin, but he merely leans on the railing beside him and hooks his thumb on his jersey jacket. "I'm from Rosemary. Technically, we're not supposed to talk to Sacred Heart kids, unless it's to mock them." He offers a closed-mouth smile. "But I won't say anything if you won't."

Without replying, Armin rubs his arms, creating friction where his skin has chilled from fear and the cold weather.

"So are you new?" Tristan persists. "I don't remember seeing you around last year."

Armin strenuously stares at his scuffed shoes and can feel Tristan's eyes on the side of his face, like a touch. "I studied abroad for a couple years."

"No kidding! That's, like, my dream—to get outta this place and see the world, ya know?"

Armin raises his face, sputtering "Yes!" with an embarrassing pitch of enthusiasm. He tries to cough it back, but Tristan just smiles, a sincere smile, and puts out his hand.

"I'm Tristan."

Armin cautiously exchanges a handshake. "Armin."

Tristan's high-arching brows knit like it is the first time he has heard the name, then he wipes the puzzled look from his face, smiling again. "So where'd you study, Armin?"

Armin panics a bit as he tries to spit out a lie without making it obvious. "Um—a small place in the Caribbean."

Annie returns, candy apple in hand, right as Tristan says, "That explains the sun streaks in your hair." His fingers skim Armin's hair. "They're practically white. It's cute."

Armin finally realizes that Tristan is flirting with him and feels his chin go slack in astonishment. Then Annie's hand circles the back of Armin's neck, drawing him down to her level. Her face is close—enough that Armin can count each thick eyelash and see his own face mirrored in her glass-blue irises.

She raises her face, her mouth parting, and Armin can see with odd clarity a veneer of burnt sugar on her lips. Her mouth angles over his, and it takes a minute for Armin to realize that she is kissing him. Annie is _kissing_ him. Annie his partner. Annie his soul mate. Annie is making him feel as though his wings are ablaze in his shoulders; he has to force them back.

Her lips, sticky with caramel, are pressed lightly on his, and she gently takes his elbow to guide him closer. Armin lets his eyes slide close, his mouth melting against hers, and he believes that the delicate pressure of her lips might actually break him to pieces.

Is this what kissing is, to feel like you are falling straight through the cosmos?

Then Annie draws back, and Armin's eyes are slow opening as if his blood is running thick as honey. When he looks up, he sees Annie munching on her apple again. Then Armin's blood runs thin and fast—directly to his face. Armin's nerves are in a clutter as he covers his mouth with his hands. "I'm sorry." His voice comes out muffled.

Annie doesn't blink, and her mouth hangs mid-bite. Her eyes are freezing, and Armin knows that what he has said is the worst possible thing he could have said. He swallows. His mouth is bitter, even though he can still taste caramel. Then Tristan coughs; Armin had forgotten he was there.

"You could've told me you were lesbian," he says, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "I don't judge."

"What? No, I'm—"

"Closeted," says Annie. "She's in the closet still."

Armin stares at her, and Tristan pulls his lips in a grimace. "Old-fashioned parents?"

"Yeah," Annie replies before Armin can squeeze in a word.

"Shame. Love is love, am I right?"

Annie's blue eyes are frosty. "Yeah." And there is just enough impatience in the word to get the message across: Tristan is unwanted here.

"I'll let you guys get back to your date, then." Tristan smiles ruefully. "Sorry for butting in." Then he gives a quirky salute at his right temple before strolling back to his friends, who clap his back and gawk at Armin and Annie, grinning like a bunch of fools. Armin hears a wolf whistle and knows his face has turned bright red.

Armin's eyes dart the other way, and he tries to make it out like he isn't embarrassed. It doesn't work. "They think I'm a girl!" He is dumbfounded and mildly horrified. "Do I look like a girl, Annie?"

She champs her candy apple. "I have to pee."

"O-oh, okay." Armin wonders if she is just saying that to change the subject. "Do you want me to hold your apple?"

After wiping her mouth on her hand, she hands it over, half-eaten. "Thanks."

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Eren and Mikasa pass a DJ station. A horde of bouncing kids congests the area around it, and a caramel-skinned boy, about seventeen or eighteen years old, with dreaded hair is behind the blinking mixer. In his arms he holds Chip, who is wriggling with delight, and Connie is next to them, a pair of red headphones squeezed over his hat.

"Who's the dude holding Chip?" Eren asks.

"That's Roland from Sword & Cross," Mikasa tells him. "He's the dark angel of music."

"Dark angel?" Eren's mind churns that around and then—"He's a demon."

Mikasa nods. "We call the original demons dark angels because they were at one time loyal to the Throne, before the Fall. Originals like Roland never lived a mortal life."

Eren watches Roland flick a dreadlock behind his shoulder, then stoop lower to say something to Connie, who lifts an earphone, listening, and then winds his arms around his gut in a bout of head-tossed laughter.

"You sure he's the angel of music?" Eren says. "This song is terrible." The pounding bass vibrates Eren's chest, rattling him to the bone, but he can't say he dislikes the feeling. It makes him feel like the whole world is one big party. It also makes him feel like he will be rendered deaf by the age of thirty.

"I think Connie chose it."

"Makes sense."

They continue on, and Eren sees two girls, one of whom he vaguely recognizes: a tiny blond girl with blue teardrop eyes. She is signaling at the Ferris wheel to her friend, who is tall and slender with freckled, pronounced cheekbones. She looks considerably bored, which is quite an accomplishment in their lively surroundings.

Eren beams at Mikasa. "Hey, want to ride the Ferris wheel?"

She fiddles with her muffler and veers her eyes. "If you want to."

"Yeah, let's do it." He grabs her hand and leads her in the direction of the ride, just about trampling over a costumed woman. "I'm sorry," he says automatically, then stops in his tracks, doing a double-take.

The woman is wearing a gypsy costume. It is designed so that the dress rests off her shoulders, drawing the eye to her chest, and the sheer, purple skirt is hitched at her hip, flaunting a shapely thigh. At first Eren wonders how she isn't freezing her butt off, then he sees the raised bumps on her neck, and his eyes fall to the bumps on her collar, to the gooseflesh cleavage spilling out her plunging neckline. She tucks him under the chin. "Eyes up here, sweetheart."

Unashamed for being caught looking, Eren smiles and says, "A stitch on your costume has frayed."

She arches an elegant brow, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Has it?"

"Mm-hmm."

She bends over, moving her face close to his, and Eren can't help noticing that, with the movement, the costume fabric has tightly squeezed her chest. "You have a cute face," she says like a sigh, "for a naughty little boy."

"Actually," he says lightly, "I'm an angel." Mikasa bumps him in the side, shooting him a chastising look, and Eren silently mouths, "What?" at her.

"That so?" she says. "How about two free hot chocolates for the angel wh—" She catches herself, "boy." Her voice is soft as spider silk, and her smile cloys sweetness.

A chill rolls across Eren's spine like prickles, and he rocks back on his heels. His eyes never flicker from her face, as he pulls the tickets from her hand. "Thanks." His tone is clipped.

She lowers her eyelashes. "Anything for an angel." And something in the saccharine way she said that makes Eren take Mikasa's hand and tow her away.

What neither one of them sees is the gypsy disbanding into a knot of spitting snakes the moment they leave.

Eren doesn't let go of Mikasa's hand, and she glances past her hair at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I just got really cold suddenly." He shrugs his shoulders around his ears, as a shiver goes through him.

"If you want, I could cash in those tickets." She lays her hand open, and he passes the hot chocolate slips to her. Her eyes stay on him a while before she says, "I'll be right back."

He watches her leave and rests his shoulder on a cement building. There are two buildings next to each other; they must be storage sheds because at one end there is an assortment of junk piling the wall, seamed furniture, wooden boards, and broken toys. The gap between the storage sheds is inconspicuous but large enough that a person could lay low in the coverage.

"Hey, um, Levi?" Eren feels ridiculous as if he is talking to his shadow. "Can I talk to you?"

At first there is nothing and then finally—"What is it?" A familiar, placid voice.

Eren feels a rush of air release from his chest; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He edges his shoulder in front of the passage and looks at Levi. His eyes are pellucid, almost colorless.

"Why does Mikasa hate you?"

Levi makes an annoyed sound through his teeth. "How hollow is your head exactly? Don't you realize it's risky for me to be here?"

"What?" Eren is horrorstruck. "You didn't say it was dangerous!"

Folding his arms on his chest, Levi leans against one wall and puts his boot on the other, looking quite relaxed for someone who claims he is at risk. "Never mind that," he idly says. "What has you concerned that you would think to summon me?"

"I don't know what it is, but I feel something weird. It's like a brush of coldness on my neck." Or like a snake has slithered under his skin. Eren's breath shudders. "And something's up with Mikasa. She's been acting weird, too."

Levi's eyes narrow. "Where is she?"

"We got free tickets for hot chocolate. She's cashing them in."

"Free? What for?"

"A carny thought I was cute." Eren grins.

"The bearded lady?"

That does not amuse Eren. "No," he says tonelessly. "A gypsy with legs like you wouldn't believe."

Looking unimpressed, Levi takes Eren's shoulders and squares his body in the gap between the buildings. He dumps the topic of carnies and long-legged gypsies. "It's been two years since you've felt demon energy. Your senses may be hypersensitive." He looks Eren in the eye. "However, I'll trust your judgment. Cover me."

Twisting over his shoulder, Eren does a sweep of the grounds. People are trucking along with their prizes, foods, and friends, interested only in what involves them. Their gazes pass Eren as if he is one with the wall. "No one's paying attention," Eren informs him. "You're in the clear."

Levi stands toe to toe with Eren, draping an arm over his shoulder. "Don't move." Then he steps on top of Eren's sneakers, and it makes Eren think of small children standing on their fathers' shoes, bumming their footsteps like hitchhikers as they waddle along together. Levi is unexpectedly heavy. The heels of his boots smash Eren's feet; Eren feels the throbbing of his pulse in each of his toes.

From behind they probably look like a passionate couple that found a convenient make-out spot.

With the added leverage, Levi is able to peer over Eren's shoulder, surveying their surroundings without being seen. They are chest to chest, and the zipper teeth of Levi's jacket scrape Eren's shirt, snagging on the fabric as Levi stretches higher. The hem of Eren's shirt draws up, and winter air ghosts an exposed sliver of his stomach. He shivers.

"I said don't move," Levi says sharply.

"My shirt rode up," Eren hisses. "It's cold!"

Levi generously tugs Eren's shirt back down, then continues searching. His hand holds the back of Eren's neck, and Eren doesn't feel snakes; he feels warmth and then wonders why Levi isn't setting off his internal alarm. He is a demon, after all.

Some time passes, and Eren loses feeling in all ten toes. If Levi were actually a kid, this wouldn't be as painful.

Eren inhales and catches a scent coming from Levi's jacket. "You smell nice." Eren is whispering for some mysterious reason. "Very clean."

"When I told you to be still," Levi mutters impatiently, "that included your mouth." His voice is just by Eren's ear, and Eren feels a swing in his stomach like a swooping bird.

"You know those little bars of soap they have at hotels?" He gives Levi a pause to respond, but it goes unfilled. "You smell like that."

Levi is silent, either ignoring Eren or concentrating, perhaps having spotted something important, and Eren suppresses the impulse to turn around. He opens his mouth to ask Levi what he sees—

"Which one?" Levi inquires.

"What?"

"Which hotel?"

Eren grins at no one. "The Ritz. A luxury suite, definitely." He wants to lift his shoulders, but he reminds himself that he is supposed to keep still. "The way I imagine it smells, anyway, because I haven't been there."

"You said the hot chocolate was free?" There is a shadow in Levi's voice.

"Yeah, why?"

"Nothing's free. There's always a price." Then suddenly Levi is gone, vanished into thin air. The place where their chests had been touching is cold. Eren whirls—and sees that Levi is striding towards Mikasa, the gray hood of his jacket drawn over his head. Mikasa is holding two Styrofoam cups, puffing steam. She blows on the one in her right hand, cooling it off, then lifting it to her mouth. Levi reaches out.

"Wait, don't—!"

But he doesn't make it in time. As she swallows, the network of veins in her neck becomes a shock of black cords against her white skin. Eyes agape, she drops the cups, froth and chocolate splashing the grass. Then she clutches her throat, buckling to the ground and racking gasps. Levi slips to a crouch in front of her, appearing for once rattled. A violent coughing fit shakes her—she coughs hard, and a thin spray of red spatters Levi's cheek. He doesn't bother wiping it off as he quickly gathers her up in his arms. Her fingers claw at the front of his jacket, and her mouth moves incomprehensibly, smearing blood across her lips.

"Mikasa!" Eren breaks into a run.

Standing up, Levi turns to Eren. His face looks gray. "There was holy water in those drinks." Levi speaks gentler than Eren thought he could. "I need to get her to the academy." Mikasa blacks out in Levi's arms, slack as a corpse, and Levi's jaw has whitened with strain. "Don't go anywhere by yourself. Find Armin." Then a murky pool of shadow gathers beneath his feet, engulfing him up in an instant—and he is gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Armin<strong>

Waiting outside the restroom, which is just a gritty cement building, Armin sees Jean scanning the faces of the crowd while scratching the back of his two-toned hair, looking lost. When Jean's gaze moves to Armin, he looks harder as if he doesn't entirely recognize him. Then Jean weaves his way through a passing group of kids that carry hotdogs and popcorn, and Jean's expression is a mix of apprehension and exasperation.

"Have you seen Marco?" he asks. "That disloyal bastard ditched me by the water guns."

Armin shakes his head. "No, I haven't seen him."

"He better hope I don't find him, 'cause when I do, I'll…" He sighs and leans next to Armin, staring at the sky. "It's pretty bad when your own partner leaves you. Am I really that unbearable to be around?"

"No, that's not why. You just got separated, that's all." Armin wonders if Annie asked herself the same question when he left her. "It's not your fault. He probably has his reasons, but he'll come back." Now Armin is prattling, so he clamps his teeth on Annie's apple.

Jean glances down at Armin from the corner of his eye. "How did you do it? How'd you leave Annie? I can't stand being away from Marco for more than a few seconds."

Armin sighs. "It wasn't easy."

"Was it because of Jaeger?" he asks, and Armin nearly drops Annie's apple. "It's weird how you follow him around; it's like you're in love with the guy."

Armin gapes at Jean, appalled that he would suggest something like that. "No, I feel something, like a connection…as if I've known him my whole life."

"You're in love with him," Jean says simply.

Heaving another sigh, Armin fixes his eyes to the patchy lawn. "Maybe—I don't know." And he wishes he did know.

"I went too far, didn't I?" When Armin doesn't say anything, Jean hisses something unintelligible at himself. "I'm sorry. Marco's always telling me I have no filter." He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "And I know he's right. I just can't stop myself, I guess."

"I don't think it's a bad trait," Armin says. "People like you become leaders."

"I think you mean tyrants."

Armin chuckles. "The corrupt ones," he agrees. "But I think your heart is in the right place."

"I would hope so. That my heart's in the right place, anyway." Jean pushes off the wall. "I should find that freckle face before he gets himself in trouble. Knowing that moron, he'll get himself lost in the funhouse." He offers a crooked grin before shuffling off, and something in the set of his shoulders makes Armin think Jean feels more miserable than he let on.

Armin's eyes follow after Jean's back until he disappears in a rush of people, then Armin's eyes fall to his feet—and dart back up again. He saw something. Something red. Tristan's head is like a blood-red beacon in the faces around him. His mohawk is wet to his scalp as if he had been caught in the rain, and his stare is intense on Armin like a panther on point. Armin's stomach plummets, and his nerves itch with an instinct to run or, better yet, _fly_. His wings move in his shoulders. He holds them steady.

Armin's eyes shoot to the women's restroom like Annie would come out if he simply looked her way. The blue painted door remains shut. He looks back to Tristan—and reels backward. Tristan is just in front of him now, panting, his skin greasy with sweat.

"A-Armin." Tristan staggers forward and catches Armin's shoulders; his fingertips mash into his skin. "Armin, I don't…feel so good. I don't…" Hot breath blasts at Armin's face. Then Tristan ducks his head and dry heaves with a terrible retching noise.

Some _thing_ crawls in Tristan's mouth. Black tendrils like octopus limbs climb from out of his throat, _alive_, writhing and wrapping around his lips, ripping his mouth open; the corners of his mouth split. Armin drops Annie's apple. He wants to scream, but before he can—the dark entity disappears, and Armin blinks, half-expecting it to reappear. It doesn't.

"Trist_—ah!_" Armin gasps as Tristan pushes him around the corner. He stumbles over rubble, kicking around dust and jagged sediment, and feels the rubble give way to the windowless back of the cement building. It is dark. And Armin is wedged between a chain-link fence and the restrooms, with Tristan blocking the only outlet.

"You're a liar!" Tristan wails. "Liar! Liar!" His face contorts as if he might cry.

The sudden hysteria perturbs Armin, and for a moment all he can manage is a gape-eyed stare at Tristan. "What did I lie about?" He speaks calmly and carefully like he is trying to pacify an upset child.

An eerie, drawn-out moan comes from Tristan's throat, but it sounds disembodied as if there is something else inside him, weeping. "Boy. You—are a—" Tristan sucks a ragged breath. "Boy!" His head jerks suddenly to the side like someone has tugged an invisible string hooked to his ear.

"Yes," Armin says, "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry! Stop—_stop_ lying to me!" Then Tristan plunges at Armin.

Lurching the other way, Armin slips on sharp rock. He feels his ankle slice open, and pressure surges in his back. His wings. He bites his lip and flattens his shoulders to the cement wall. He can't let his wings out. Not here. His mind reels for other options.

He considers summoning his angel blade, then tosses that option too. His blade could kill Tristan with a mere scratch, and by the law of the Throne, angels are forbidden to hurt humans in any circumstance. What other option does that give him? He could scream and hope someone hears him over the music and the laughter and the rides and the games… Who is he kidding? No one will hear him. Armin is out of options.

With uneven, jerky steps, Tristan closes in on him, standing then at his toes. Tristan is heavy-eyed, as he reaches out a thick hand and leisurely draws his forefinger down the side of Armin's cheek to his jaw. His hand is rough with calluses.

"Delicate skin for a boy," he muses with a wicked, lazy smile, and Armin freezes. Tristan's voice has deepened, coarsened, and the expression on his face doesn't resemble the Tristan that Armin met earlier. "And your eyes, so pure and innocent; they give me this hunger like fire in my gut."

He moves even closer to Armin, trailing his finger from Armin's jaw to his throat—lower, to the buttoned collar of Armin's shirt. He picks apart the first button—and Armin, finally coming to his senses, clutches Tristan's wrist firmly.

"I know what that feels like, the fire." Armin looks into Tristan's face. "It's as if the slightest touch or image awakens something uncontrollable inside of you, and nothing you do can put it out."

"I don't want to put it out." Tristan grins ferociously. "I want to _burn_."

Thrust backwards, Armin hits the cement wall, seeing stars, and Tristan catches a fistful of Armin's hair, jerking his head sideways and opening his neck. "Burn with me," he growls hotly.

Something warm with a velvet texture runs the span of Armin's neck to his earlobe, leaving a fiery trail of saliva that cools rapidly on his skin like ice water. Armin screws his eyes shut, and behind the panic flickering inside him, he dizzily finds something strange about the way that tongue felt. Had it been forked like a snake's tongue?

Teeth like metal scrape Armin's skin, seizing him from out of his thoughts. Heat swells to the surface of his throat. Dropping his mouth open, Armin gasps in winter air. Pins fill his lungs.

"Stop," Armin mutters weakly.

"You smell like sweet cream." Tristan's voice is like a sensuous moan, as he unhurriedly undoes Armin's shirt, exhaling heavily. A cloud rises in the air with the breath. "And you taste even sweeter. I will—_devour_ you."

Hands cool as glass slip beneath the back of Armin's cardigan, under his shirt, stroking the small of his back, and the touch startles Armin so severely that he arches, flinching from Tristan's hands—flinching, however, into Tristan's barrel chest. Armin is caught like a rabbit in a trap.

"Devour. Devour. Devour." Tristan's voice grinds like a jammed machine, and he locks Armin's face between his hands, the corner of his mouth curling towards his ear in a vast, twisted grin. Drool pours over his bottom lip, oozing over his chin, and in the dimness it looks viscous and greenish. "Tonight, we devour!"

A glob of drool drops onto Armin's throat, and he cringes, pushing uselessly on Tristan's shoulders. "We?"

Bringing his face downward, Tristan gapes his mouth wide and rigid as if to inhale Armin and ravage him. Hot breath hits Armin's cheeks, as Tristan's tongue slides across his front teeth, coating them thickly in spit.

"_We-eeeee—_" His voice shudders, then snaps from its glitch. "Devour." Then Tristan's fingertips edge beneath the waistband of Armin's jeans.

A spark. Heat ripples inside Armin; his flesh blooms, and his heart thuds in his chest. He goes weak from the rush. Not again. He wasn't even thinking of Eren, so why now? Armin squirms, furious with himself, with everything. _Why? _Why is he this way?

"You're enjoying it!" Tristan laughs jarringly. "You _want_ to be humiliated!"

The worst part is that a piece of Armin believes it is true. Why else would he be burning up? The backs of his eyes pull, tears threatening, and he wills them back, refusing to cry in this degrading position.

"The fire," Tristan pants in his ear, "feel it overpower you like a drug."

"A…drug?" Armin is out of breath as if he has sprinted down the block and back.

The force on Armin's chest is gone, and Tristan is doubled over at Armin's feet. Annie has come back. She is staring at Armin, her eyes clouded over, and Armin sinks against the wall, pressing his burning cheek to the cool cement, driving the fever in his body away.

"Are you okay?" There is something feral in Annie's voice.

Closing his eyes, Armin sighs and pushes his damp hair back from his forehead. "Can drugs make humans feel feverish?"

It takes a second for Annie to answer. "Why are you asking all of a sudden?"

Armin clams up. "Never mind." After taking a few deep, calming breaths, he kneels in a crouch before Tristan. He feels faint, the after-effect of an adrenaline rush, but he is regained of his composure enough to levelly hold Tristan's gaze. "What did you mean 'we devour'?" he asks.

Tristan tilts his head. "Look in the mirrors," he says adamantly. His skin is ice-pale, and his pupils have dilated so large that they swallow up the irises. "Mirrors. Mirrors. Mirrors. Mirrors," he chants. "And watch-ch-ch—him _bleed! _Blee_—_eeeeeeee_—_" Tristan's voice degenerates into hysterical laughter, and Annie, blank-faced, passes a boot across his mouth. He sags on the wall, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You knocked him out," Armin says without moving. "Why did you do that?"

Annie stuffs her hands in her gray pullover. "He was talking gibberish."

"There was something wrong with him."

"He's stoned. Didn't you see his eyes?"

"I don't think that's what it was."

"You're overthinking it. He was a creep that assaulted you. Humans," she mutters frostily, "are cruel." Her repulsion is unconcealed.

And Armin feels an expression of horror on his face. "Our duty is to protect people. It's not our place to condemn them for the choices they make."

Annie's blue eyes have gone distant. "Do you remember how you died, Armin?"

Armin shakes his head slowly. "No, I don't have any of my human memories."

"You'll remember. We all do eventually." Her voice is plaintive. "Your death will be the first thing of your human life that you'll recall, because it was your last moment. After that, the memories will come flooding back, and you'll remember how unkind life really was."

Armin brings himself to a stand, keeping his eyes on Tristan. "How did you die, Annie?"

"I was chased to an iced-over pond; fell through and drowned."

"Is that," he wonders aloud, "why you like to share my bed, because you feel cold?" Then he searches Annie, trying to read her, but she is like a page written in a language that he hasn't studied nearly enough. "I read somewhere that phantom sensations are strongest at night."

He pulls the dictionary definition from his memory bank. _Phantom sensations:_ illusory perceptions that immortal beings experience as if they are reliving their mortal deaths. "It makes sense for you to need the extra body heat; the nightmares wouldn't be as frequent or as severe."

Baring her cheek at him, Annie says, "I'm going to ride the Ferris wheel. Stay here and speculate if that's what you want." She walks away with her usual sluggish strides, not waiting up for Armin.

Studying Tristan crumpled on the wall, Armin reels through a few possible explanations. Then he starts after Annie and is surprised to see that she waited for him after all.

"Take off your sweater," she says. "Let's trade."

He looks down at his blue cardigan; it is disheveled and halfway opened. "My sweater, why?"

She peels her loose-fitting gray sweatshirt over her head and hands it over without explaining; she is wearing a white T-shirt underneath. After shrugging out of his cardigan, Armin compliantly gives it to her, and she puts it on. It hangs loose on her small frame, and the sleeves cover her hands.

"It's too big, Annie. You'll be cold."

She folds her arms. "It's warm."

He looks at her, trying to determine if she is lying. He is unable to read her, so he tugs her sweatshirt over his head. The sleeves don't quite reach his wrists, and it fits shapeless and slack on his shoulders. She looks him over. "Better."

He gives her a puzzled look, and she ignores it, starting in the direction of the flashing Ferris wheel. "Let's go."

* * *

><p><strong>Erwin<strong>

Erwin had felt a breach in the academy's wards and knew that there was only one demon strong enough to break the barriers for even an instant. Levi, carrying Mikasa unconscious in his arms, appeared before him, and Erwin lowered the wards to ease Levi's strain as he led him to the infirmary where Hanji was.

Mikasa is now lying on one of the infirmary beds. They sit in silence, Levi on the edge of a neighboring bed and Erwin in a wooden chair pulled up at the foot, while Hanji works at Mikasa's burns. Her throat is mottled with a breakout of parched veins and flaking skin, and each breath is jagged like it is being dragged from out of her lungs with fishhooks.

Levi looks weary, arched with his elbows on his knees and staring at his own hands. Even with the advantage of the full moon, breaking the academy's wards must have spent a good portion of his power.

"What happened, Levi?" Erwin asks.

"Are you aware this festival is crawling with demons?" Levi crosses a leg and folds his arms. "Eren is perceptive for an idiot who doesn't know much."

"I am aware that demons have raided the carnival grounds."

Sharply Levi turns his stare on Erwin. "What ploy are you stewing this time, that you would jeopardize your own students?" His voice is like ice shards.

"My students are in capable hands," is all Erwin offers.

There is a lengthy pause before Levi speaks again, and when he does his voice has placated. "Your wing is all right?"

The question doesn't sound particularly concerned, but it surprises Erwin in any case. "You didn't cause permanent damage if that's what you're asking. My wing doesn't permit flight anyhow, as you're already aware. The damage you could have caused would've been inconsequential."

Levi doesn't say anything to that, just stares at his own two hands again, stone-still.

"I know that you are concerned for her," Erwin says patiently, "but it is dangerous to lower the wards for an extended period of time."

Levi raises his head. "How's she looking, Four-Eyes?"

Hanji finishes swathing Mikasa's neck with a bandage. "She will recover by morning." Then she glances at Levi and crosses her arms. "She's abnormally strong, like you. If you're siblings, you're half-siblings because her eyes—" She gestures to the curve of Mikasa's eyes that gives away her heritage, an eye shape that Levi doesn't have.

"Cousins," Levi says, answering the question she didn't ask.

Hanji nods, storing that in mind. "I met her when she first arrived here. She is very attached to Eren."

"She should be."

Stroking her chin, she looks at Levi questioningly. "Hmm?"

"In their mortal lives, he sacrificed himself for her and Armin." Levi turns his face at the wall. "It didn't matter though; they both ended up dead anyway."

"Ah-hah, so that's why you chose Mikasa and Armin as his companions when you took him away." Hanji sits at the foot of the bed. "Eren's power could have derived from his death," she speculates. "He died a martyr and will carry out that fate once again."

Levi rises to his feet. "He will not. It's unnecessary." His metallic eyes are piercing on Erwin. "My power is enough." Then he rolls up his sleeve. His forearm is wrapped in white tape as if he has been injured, but Erwin knows it is to conceal and control his Ackerman Mark.

"You are strong—stronger than Eren, even," Erwin allows, "but you are not the one who will save humanity. There is much more to Eren's power than you know." Any expression Levi was wearing has cleared away, and he draws his sleeve back down.

Erwin brings himself to his feet, looming over Levi. He holds Levi's stare unwaveringly. "You will let him experience pain. That is an order, and if you don't abide by it, my angels will guarantee the deed is carried out one way or another." Levi's eyes flash like one of his electric bolts, but Erwin continues before he can respond. "In order for Eren to be restored to his former glory, he must regain his wings, and for that to happen, he has to find his will to fight."

"His former glory," Levi echoes with bland distaste. "I don't think so. It'll be different this time."

"That would be ideal." Erwin draws something from his pocket: a white-gold ring with an inlaid moonstone. The band is thick, patterned with the Ackerman crest, and inside the band a name is engraved. _Levi_.

Levi's chin tilts down as he stares at Erwin through his eyelashes. "Where did you get that?" His tone is reproachful.

"I said that I wouldn't stop you; it was your choice. In a way, I am partly to blame for your state." Erwin had idly stood by as Levi committed the sin that would end up damning him forever. That moment haunts Erwin more than it does Levi.

Holding the ring up to the lamplight, Erwin watches shadows dance in the white stone. "I was saving this to use as leverage over you," he says without shame. "I believe, however, circumstances have changed." In his open palm, he offers it to Levi. "I have blessed this ring; as long as you wear it, you will be able to pass through the academy's wards without hindrance. Can I trust that you will join our side?"

Levi is unblinking. "I won't pledge my allegiance to the Throne."

"So you have accepted the role Lucifer has tasked you with?"

"No." When Levi takes the ring, Erwin doesn't stop him. "There's only one side that I could ever choose." He slides the ring on his middle finger and ponders it a while. "And that's Eren's side." Then his shadow twists up and off the floor, enshrouding him in a demon portal.

Hanji strokes her chin like she does when something has piqued her interest. "The loyalty he shows Eren doesn't resemble the desire that a demon has for a soul, no matter how enticing it may be. What I suspect is that the moment Levi looked into Eren's eyes and saw his essence, he didn't feel lust for him," she says, pushing back her glasses, "but fell irrevocably in love with him. What I see in Levi isn't the hunger of a demon but the devotion of a man in love."

Erwin sighs heavily and slides back into his seat. "That is problematic." He had known Levi wasn't compelled to take Eren's soul. Souls do not appeal to him. Of all the creatures bound to the underworld, Levi is the only demon that has never once touched a soul.

Knowing Levi is a proud man who refuses to be indebted to others, Erwin had presumed Levi felt the need to repay Eren for his sacrifice over Mikasa, the last of his family. But _love? _That is significantly worse.

"It is inconceivable for Levi to choose between the Throne and the underworld," Hanji ventures aloud, "because one way or another, he would be separated from Eren. Levi is of Lucifer's innermost circle of demons, branded with the Ackerman curse. The Throne would never allow an infernal creature like Levi to be paired with Eren. And Lucifer would order Levi to kill Eren. So instead of directly defying orders, he has eschewed punishment by forming a demon contract with Eren, and this particular contract was a very clever loophole. A life free of pain is an impossibility," she explains, "for anyone, and therefore the contract will never be fulfilled." She meets Erwin's gaze. "Levi will serve Eren for the rest of their eternity."

"The king of the underworld will catch on soon enough," says Erwin, "and when that happens I fear Levi won't be the only one who will face vengeance. Eren will pay as well."

Hanji taps her finger on her chin. "Yes, that is a problem, isn't it?"

* * *

><p><strong>Eren<strong>

Eren has made a complete circle. He passed Connie and Sasha at the hotdog-eating contest, and he avoided Jean, who looked as lost as Eren felt. Now he is back at the fortuneteller's tent, where he and Mikasa began, with no sign of Armin. Eren sighs, his eyes aimlessly searching the swarm of faces around him as he wanders along.

At the entrance of the fortuneteller's tent are two women. One is garbed in the same indigo cloak that senile old woman wore from earlier. Eren can't see her face because the hood is pulled over her head, but he can tell it isn't the same person; this woman isn't hobbled over, and has a tumble of rippling dark hair that spills out the hood. She leans into the second smaller woman, who has jet-black hair to her chin, a delicate V-shaped face, and white-cream skin. Eren pauses mid-step.

Mikasa's hand cups the fortuneteller's neck, guiding her closer. Then her head arches back as the fortuneteller's face sinks into the hollow of her throat. Eren trips on something. A booth, maybe. He doesn't know because he can't tear his eyes from Mikasa. It looks like the fortuneteller is kissing her neck. And Mikasa, her eyes sealed shut, tangles her fingers in the fortuneteller's cloak. Her knees turn in, her thighs rubbing together through her jeans, and she puffs out a visible sigh into the cold air.

Eren, flushing with embarrassment, averts his gaze and continues searching for Armin. There is no possible way that is Mikasa because Levi, he reminds himself, took her to the academy. It is another girl that looks very much like her, a doppelganger or long-lost twin, _somebody_ else. Even as he thinks that, he turns over his shoulder to double-check. The fortuneteller isn't there anymore and neither is the girl that looked like Mikasa.

"Eren."

He spins and blinks a few times. Levi's illusions have done Eren in—he has blasted off to crazy town. "Mikasa?" He catches at her shoulders, looking intently into her face and not believing his eyes. "What—how—where—_Mikasa?_" He does a thorough once-over from her head to her toes. There is no sign of her burns. No marks on her neck from the holy water. Her throat is pale and unblemished. "You're healed, _already?_"

She frowns defensively. "You make it sound like a bad thing."

"No, no, no! I'm just...surprised!" He lets go of her shoulders. "Amazed, too. Your injuries looked bad. Really bad. I thought your throat had been burned through!"

Flicking her eyes to the side, she cups a hand over her neck. "I'm fine."

She sounds like she normally does, equable and neutral, but Eren can't shake the feeling that something isn't adding up. "What happened to your muffler?"

Perplexed, she stares at him. "What?"

"Your muffler," he repeats, and she still looks bemused. "You know, your scarf thing. Aren't you cold?"

"I don't get cold." And she states it tersely.

He gives her a look. "Okay, where's Levi? What happened to him?"

Her eyes are uncomprehending, which triggers something of a bad feeling inside Eren.

"He's around here somewhere," Mikasa says too late.

"He's here at the carnival," Eren says slowly, "out in the open?" His suspicion is blatant in his tone, and he eyes her pointedly.

Then Mikasa smiles; it is slow and broad across her face, a smile that raises the hair all along the back of Eren's neck. "Are you doubting me, Eren?"

"Yeah." His voice is low. "Mikasa would never smile like that."

She looks taken aback and touches her mouth. "Oh, whoops. I forgot; she's an Ackerman, isn't she?" A strange accent has entered Mikasa's voice. It is serrated like razor blades, and the words are pronounced precise as a scalpel. "They're a rather boring lot, those Ackermans. Much too serious for their own good." She sighs theatrically. "So dreary." Then Mikasa flicks a lock of hair that always falls into her face, a sort of defining feature about her. "This girl and her damn hair. What, does she think she can hide behind it or something?"

So this person really isn't Mikasa. Eren had been right from the beginning. "If you don't like her face, then take it off," he snaps. "Stop acting like a coward and show me your _true_ face."

"While I don't much care for this girl's form, it's clear that you're fond of her; I think I'll keep it." She has an impish expression, dark and seductive, and her voice is edged with carnal thirst. "I could let you see her naked if you'd like."

That lights Eren's fury with wild intensity. He seizes her arms before he knows what he is doing. "Don't fuck with me," he growls.

"Wasn't planning to." Her black eyes are taunting. "You're easy on the eyes, for sure. And I like a man that's not afraid to get a little rough, but this place"—her nose crinkles—"stinks of caramel and vomit. Won't do it for me, no matter how cute you are."

Eren snarls. "Where is she? Where's Mikasa?" He clenches her arms, _tight_. He might crush her. "Answer me!"

Wincing, Mikasa makes a noise like a whimper. "That hurts, Eren." And she is loud enough that several people walking by shoot Eren death glares. Mikasa's eyes glitter.

With an exasperated hiss, Eren throws his hands off her. "What are you playing at?"

"It's simple," she says. "Let's race, just like you and Mikasa do."

"_Race?_" Eren is bewildered, and he considers snapping her neck, without giving her a chance to explain herself. But there are humans watching, and Eren imagines they wouldn't take the sight of a dying demon very well. He tapers his eyes. "What kind of race?"

Her finger extends to a lit up sign fixed to a tall maze-like building. It reminds him of a jungle gym. "Through the house of mirrors."

Eren watches the dazzling lights and weighs his options. The house of mirrors looks fun—in any other circumstance. Mikasa must be luring him inside to get him alone. "And if I say no?" He turns his eyes back on Mikasa; her beady stare never left his face.

"The holy water that Ackerman girl drank was laced with Lilith's blood," she says, voice dripping with acidic amusement. "It will eat away her sanity like poison in her veins, and I know how to stop it." The triumphant grin on Mikasa's face sparks murderous wrath in Eren. His pulse rages, his teeth gnash together, and every muscle wrapping his forearms coil.

"You're lying." He struggles to keep his voice from rising to a scream. "I don't believe you."

"Are you really going to gamble her life?" Mikasa's face is indifferent. She has her hands on her hips, and Eren thinks she looks strange with that posture. Even while looking at this body that resembles Mikasa, he can't imagine her ever standing like that.

Taking a step back, Eren rolls his eyes skyward, wanting to hit something, preferably this demon appearing as Mikasa. But he can't. Not in a public crowd. Inside the house of mirrors, though, is a different story. Once he simmers down some, he nods his head. "All right. We'll race."

Mikasa then hooks their arms as if they are a dating couple. "You know I'll win." Her teeth are sharpened into a smile, and Eren broods in silence. She pokes him in the ribs. "Now you're supposed to say, 'Not this time'."

But instead of that Eren mumbles a retort that sounds more like "ducking witch."

The house of mirrors has an entry on each end, and Eren takes the one on the left, looking across the grass to Mikasa. She has her hand on her hip and turns a mocking gaze at Eren. Her eyes are glinting.

"Let's take turns counting to three; you start."

"Fine." Eren faces the opening where two mirrors slant inward like a tunnel. "One."

"Two," Mikasa drags as slowly as possible.

With a split-second thought, Eren's eyes dart to the side. He could bolt the other way, try to find Eld, and hope to God the real Mikasa isn't actually poisoned with Lilith's blood.

But he knows he would never risk her life. Exhaling a cloud of breath, Eren mutters, "Three," and then warily heads into the narrow tunnel.

His hands tracking along the glass, Eren feels his way through the mirrors. Each way he turns he sees his own face reflected at him. Sometimes the mirrors are distorted, and he will appear bulbous and stout, and other times he will appear spindle-thin. The sounds of the carnival fade as he travels farther into the maze. The angling mirrors bounce the sounds back outside, dampening them where Eren is. Soon he doesn't hear voices, games, or rides at all, just the soles of his sneakers squeaking on the laminate flooring and his own breathing. He closes his mouth to quiet his breath.

Eren turns right, and his face looks back at him. He turns left. His face again. Then Eren finds himself dropping his eyes and focusing on the floor to find his way. Why the house of mirrors? Why did that demon choose this place?

Eren had thought the house of mirrors would be a fun place, but seeing himself at every angle in every direction makes him want to shrivel up. It isn't until now that he unearths a certain self-contempt that was lying dormant inside him. Is that what Mikasa was trying to draw out, his crippling uncertainty?

Eren reaches an opening in the maze, a circular room with mirrors padding the walls. Eren turns a full circle and sees no way out. He backtracks the way he came—

The opening he walked through has closed up. A vertical mirror blocks his path. He is trapped.

He does another turn around and is met by mirrors. His face reflected for infinity. Over and over and over… And Eren, stepping up to one, trails his fingers down the glass, forcing himself to stare at the eyes staring back at him, eyes that he feels he doesn't really know. He turns his face away, only to see another reflection in another mirror. He clenches his teeth and snaps around, parallel to one of his reflections.

"Let me out!" he shouts. Desperation scrapes his throat raw. He doesn't want to look at his reflections. He doesn't want to see his face—because then he will wonder who he used to be, what he did, and why he did it. And he keeps hearing Jean, remembering his resentment, his accusation that Eren turned his back on Heaven.

And the longer Eren looks at his own face, the more he believes Jean.

He swings up a leg and kicks the mirror. His shoe rebounds. "Let me out of here, I said!"

"You don't remember anything, do you?" A derisive voice comes from somewhere above or behind. Eren can't tell. "So many questions. So few answers."

A soundless black shadow gathers behind Eren, then Mikasa arises from out of it, the darkness flowing from around her shoulders like liquid tar. She wraps her fingers around his elbows, squaring him to the mirror with a shove. She puts her chin on his shoulder. "Allow me to show you what you used to be."

She touches the mirror with the point of her finger, and the glass bends like ripples in a pond. When the currents subside, a different picture emerges. It is Eren still, though he hardly recognizes himself. A pinched, oval face conquered by hollow eyes—a shadow face deprived of color and hope. Without a shirt, he looks gaunt and ashen like someone who hasn't seen the light of day in a long, long time.

Eren flinches from the image, but Mikasa has him rooted in place. "That's not me."

"Oh, but it is." Mikasa grins like needles, and her chin stabs his shoulder. "Check out those _repulsive_ wings."

The Eren in the mirror has wings that wilt from his shoulders, lifeless and shabby. The feathers don't shimmer like Armin's or any of the other angels' he has seen. Feathers spring up erratically, as if fingers scoured through them with recklessness. They are gray and shrunken and wretched. Filthy. Eren has a hard time looking at them without cringing.

"Why do they look like that?"

Mikasa draws leisurely circles in his collarbone where a vein throbs rapidly. "Because the word _no_ just wasn't in your vocabulary." Her white teeth gleam. "But isn't that how it is for every whore?"

Her words strike like ice pins. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Your wings were accessed by anyone and everyone. Naturally they lost color, beauty, and value. Worthless." She glances at his wings in the mirror, and her cheek is colder than porcelain against the side of his face. "The little angel whore, that's what we call you in the underworld." Her hand slides up his knee. "Did you spread your legs for them, too?"

Before Eren's mind comprehends what she has said, he spins—hurling a fist. She ducks and seizes his forearm, forcing him to bend at the waist. She twists his shoulder. Locks it. Then her hand pushes the threshold, threatening to dislocate his shoulder joint.

"Did you beg with that pretty mouth of yours?" Blood surges to Eren's head, making him dizzy. His heartbeat pounds against his cranium like the heavy bass of Connie's music. "Beg each angel that strolled into your sanctuary to embrace you? Loneliness knows no shame, or so I hear."

Eren stiffly cranes his head back; the veins in his neck are rigid. In the mirrors, his neck and face are bright scarlet, and a purple vein is swelled at his temple. Mikasa's nails scrape his scalp, tangling in a handful of his hair, jerking his head farther back. His teeth pull apart, his mouth opening. His chest pumps for air, but no matter how hard he breathes, he can't get enough breath.

"Did you wrap those long legs around their waists?" she sneers. "Tighten your thighs as they pushed deep inside your—"

"_Shut up!_" He flings a sneaker at her shin and rips himself from her grip. He loses a chunk of hair—and whirls, a fist swung back. Mikasa springs out of the way as his knuckles narrowly blow past her face.

"That's your comeback, seriously?" She gives a few mocking claps that echo off the mirrors. "Genius."

He bares his teeth at her. "Fuck you."

Her eyes shine, and she tosses her head with a cackle. "I think that's _your_ department, little angel boy. You carry the proof on your shoulders."

"No!" With his every ounce of strength, Eren throws another fist—at that sickening reflection this time. Those soiled wings are _not_ his. Not anymore.

Gratifying pain jets through his hand, and the mirror shatters with raining shards. Slivers of glass cut his knuckles, embedding in his flesh. Then the world goes entirely calm, as he stands in front of the broken mirror, panting, sweat trickling down his neck. A few more grains of glass trickle to the ground, and somewhere in the farthest corner of his mind, Eren thinks it is a soothing sound, like rolling waves. His fist is stuck to the wall, and he peels it away, shredding skin and leaving a splash of red.

"So self-destructive." Looking amused, Mikasa smiles at the blood streaking his fingers. "But that's what the angels want from you, right? To destroy yourself, so they can get stronger."

Her words are venom and burn away his strength. He sinks to the floor, his knees melting like wax. His head hangs, his shoulders sag, and he folds over, motionless as one of the cemetery's grieving stone angels. He stares at his gushing hand; blood drips to the floor in fat drops. His fingers shake, but the pain is dull, a satisfying sort of pain and easily overlooked, very unlike the pain that he feels from Mikasa's words.

And those words could be the truth, because Eren doesn't remember. His head is filled with lies, like the real Mikasa had said. Who _was_ Eren?

"We could feel it in the underworld, your despair," she goes on, and Eren really wishes she wouldn't. "It was like nectar to us, and we drank it up. It wasn't nearly enough, though. We craved _more_." She paces behind him, her boots clacking briskly.

"The easiest way to hurt you was through your precious angel soldiers," she says. "With each one we took out, our power flourished and we feasted on the growing anguish that consumed you." A white smile cuts into her mouth. "Pretty ingenious, don't you agree?"

Eren's hand fumbles the floor and grazes glass, slicing open his fingertips. He ignores a spike of pain and seizes a long glass shard.

She turns on her heel and saunters closer. "What makes angels strong is their teamwork," Mikasa explains, her tone airy. "But you—you're on your own. _Vulnerable_. Exhaust your strength, and no one will be there to save you." Squatting next to him, she grasps his chin, pulling his face to look at her. "Pity."

She smiles, raising her fine eyebrows and tilting her head. Then she draws his face in, a snake tongue flickering over her bottom lip—

And Eren drives the glass shard into her stomach, twisting it deep in her gut. Blackish liquid erupts around the glass, soaking his shirt, and her eyes gape in her skull, blood vessels breaking. The whites of her eyes turn gray.

"I'll save myself." The power in Eren's own voice is strange to his ears. "Go back to Hell."

Her breath gurgles like she is breathing underwater; black tears seep from the corners of her eyes. Then her flesh bubbles, spitting as if her veins are boiling. Her flesh liquefies and drips like heated candle wax. The left side of her face sags, her eyeball sliding to her ear, rolling in her pooling skin. It watches Eren. She warbles a wet sound in her mouth as her body chars to gray dust, sprinkling the floor and Eren's legs. The stench of rot saturates the air, and Eren gags, trying not to retch up the carmelcorn he ate. He pushes himself from the demon dust and tries to slow his mind, which is working double time.

Overcome with adrenaline, he has to will his fingers loose from around the glass shard. It clatters to the floor. There is a deep slash in his palm from squeezing it; rivulets of scarlet and black blend together in his palm, like the paints on an artist palette. He closes his trembling hand and slumps against the mirror, catching his breath. He shuts his eyes.

This is a nightmare.

With a grunt of effort, bracing his shoulder on the wall, he hauls himself to his feet and trudges to a shattered mirror that has cleared an open exit. His feet feel like they have giant bags of sand tied to them; they drag behind him. One step at a time, he makes his way closer.

"Eren!"

Eren's head goes up, and his heart leaps in his chest. "Armin!"

Armin rushes inside. "I've been looking for you. I was worried!"

Eren is stunned when Armin throws his arms around him. It isn't as if he and Armin have never embraced before, but they rarely do. "Are you okay, Eren?" Armin's voice opens a blossom of relief inside Eren, and he exhales, relaxing against him.

He winds his arms around Armin's shoulders. "Yeah." At the very least, Eren has Armin to depend on.

"Good, good." Armin buries his face in Eren's chest, and Eren hears him sigh. "Good, Eren. Good…"

And then Eren feels a prickle on his neck like a cold breath. He tenses in Armin's hold.

"Eren, Eren, Eren…," Armin moans. His hands slide up Eren's back, and even through his thermal, Eren can feel their coldness as if Armin stuck his arms in a freezer.

"Did you look in the mirror, Eren? Did you see your true self?" Ice water floods Eren's veins, and Armin gazes up at him, his arms still wrapped around Eren's waist. His eyes are very blue. Dangerously blue. "Pitiful, isn't it, that you're just a worthless and desolate creature?"

Then Eren is falling backwards—it takes a second for his mind to register that Armin has pushed him with blinding force. Out of the corner of his eye, Eren sees something whipping, silver and metallic. Then it tightens around his throat. He chokes. Looking into the mirror, Eren sees that wires have sprouted from the wall and are coiled around his neck. He scrapes his nails at them. The wires are sharp as knives; his fingertips split. More wires shoot out at him, twisting around his wrists, his elbows, and his chest. They jerk him—he flies back, slamming against a mirror. It cracks under his skull. His vision darkens, and he groans.

The wires knot him to the wall like he is an insect caught in a web. They are tight on his flesh and pull blood, making his arms suspended by his head hot and slippery. With great difficulty, Eren raises his face and sees Armin standing in front of him, studying him with acute and sympathetic interest as if he is some poor, fascinating creature.

"That color in your eyes, Eren, it is the color of Heaven, both ocean and sky." Armin's gaze is clear, and he is smiling. "I despise it. I want to gouge your eyes out of your skull and watch the heavenly color bleed from them." He speaks gently and kindly, and sounds so much like Armin that Eren finds himself loosening against the sharp wire, despite what he has said.

"The eyes are windows to the soul," Armin tells him, "and I see that yours is scarred from being broken, like suture seams in mutilated flesh." He reaches out, and his hand slides across Eren's cheek, soft, affectionate, and cold as marble. Eren shudders. "It is really beautiful."

Distantly Eren hears himself gasping against the wires. The world is slipping away, as he suffocates slowly.

"Did you know that scar tissue is weaker than normal skin? Most people believe the opposite. They think scars are less likely to tear back open." Armin inclines closer, reaching onto his toes, and lidding his eyes partway. "But things are easier to break the second time. We will break you again, and no one will be there to stitch up your wounds. You are alone."

And then Eren remembers that Armin is wrong.

Eren moves his chin. The wires lacerate his neck in ribbons, crimson blood spurts, his breaths come in reedy gasps. He manages one word, a name: "Le…vi."

Armin looks dubious. "What was that?" Then his eyes bug, a horror of whites in his skull, as the point of a black blade passes clean through his back. Armin looks down. The sight of a dagger sticking out his chest sends him into an episode of gaped-mouth shock. His scream is delayed.

The dagger is wrenched free, Armin falls, and Levi appears behind him. He stands over Armin, his hair falling over his eyes, which glower incandescently—brighter than melted mercury.

"Levi of the Accursed Clan!" Armin chokes thickly. "You'll pay! You will answer to His Majesty Lucifer himself! He will come for you and _strip_ you of the little freedom you have. You will be nothing! NOTHING!"

Levi plunges the toe of his boot in Armin's mouth, kicking in his teeth. "So loud." Armin's face is slopped in tacky black liquid like oil. Eren can see where a few teeth have been knocked out. "Do me a favor," Levi says in his usual bland tone. "When you resurrect in the underworld, tell the king"—Levi reaches a sparking hand down—"that I'll be waiting." Then a blue bolt rips through Armin, and he disintegrates to gray powder.

* * *

><p><strong>Armin<strong>

In a squeaky carriage, Armin casts his gaze to the night sky, to the winking stars and the white face of the moon, as he and Annie gradually rise with the rotating Ferris wheel. Some humans believe that Heaven is somewhere past the stars, but Heaven isn't a place that you can reach, even with wings. It is a place that reaches one's spirit. Armin has been there only once; it is where his soul reawakened after his mortal death, when the Throne told him he had been blessed with wings. It was a voice, neither male nor female, resonating through him.

"Wings," the Throne had said, "are not freedom. They are a weight that you cannot endure on your own. If you accept them, however, you will know strength, hope, and most importantly _love_—for the rest of your eternal life."

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust: a phrase from a common burial prayer amongst humans, and how appropriate, too. Angels, if they are killed, melt to ash, and demons dissolve to dust; ash is all that lies ahead of Armin now. Sometimes he wonders if he will be remembered, or if he will be swept up in the wind and forgotten. Perhaps that is for the best. He would rather be forgotten than become a burden.

"Don't look like that." Annie's voice breaks him from his thoughts, and he slants his gaze at her inquiringly.

She has her chin in her hand, distantly looking over the carnival. The multicolored lights of the Ferris wheel blink against her blond hair, green, then blue, then red. "Don't look like you're sorry for existing," she mutters. "You're not a burden. That part of you hasn't changed." She says it like she has no opinion on his personal self-doubt, but Armin knows that she is worried about him.

She turns her eyes at him without moving. "But that's why it had to be you."

"What?"

"You're the only one who would rather die than be a burden on Eren," she says. "You would never accept his power; that's the reason Levi asked you to leave with them."

Armin pinches his fingers in his lap and can't look her in the eye. "But I deserted you. I left you by yourself, and I'll never be able to make it up to you. That's why you should—"

"Replace you?"

Armin brings his eyes up to her face. Her expression is oddly fragile. Annie, the strongest person he knows, looks as if she might crumble under the slightest touch. "You could find someone strong," he tells her. "Strong like you. And when you fly, you're fast. You could get a new partner that could keep up."

Annie's blue eyes are as breakable as thin ice. "You have an incredibly sharp mind, but sometimes you're just as incredibly dense." Her voice sounds small. "I don't need someone who's strong, Armin. I need someone _good_. Someone brave." She rests against the seat with the smallest sigh. "You don't see it, but you've got guts. It took real courage to leave with Eren and Mikasa, and break the Covenant's law. Even angels can be scum, turning to what's easiest and most convenient." She puts her chin in her hand again. "I'm like that."

Armin leans forward, looking at the side of her face keenly, at the blond hair that curls around her cheek. He reaches out to brush it back but thinks better of it and brings his hand back to his knee. "You're a good person, Annie."

Her head goes up in surprise, then she makes a sound that might be amusement. "What makes you think I'm such a good person?"

"Because—" Armin then rises from his slouch as something like an epiphany strikes him with jolting force. "Cease to be, the devouring…"

Annie has a blank look.

Armin tosses his eyes to the sky. "It's a full moon, and strange things have been happening—like with Tristan."

"He assaulted you," she says with some impatience. "Simple as that."

Armin's face burns. "No—I mean yes, he did that, but a demon possessed him; I'm sure of it. This isn't a festival. It's a feasting."

Armin flattens his hand, upward, and summons his angel firearm. An intangible shimmer clusters above his palm, and then the cool weight of his exorcism gun manifests in his grip. It has been two years since he last used it: a revolver, translucent like his angel blade, crystalline as frost, and reassuring in his grasp. The firearm knows there are demons lurking nearby; energy swells inside the crystal with a white glow.

Then the background music that has been playing stops. It is quiet, sharply so, as if the entire world has collectively held its breath. Armin's ears ring with the silence. And then a noise like a mix of grinding metal and guttural growling reigns the overhead speakers. Armin perceives it as words:

_"Angels, Heaven's soldiers, welcome to the devouring! Watch as your hope is feasted upon. Watch his blood spray like rain. But first—his friends. One down, and now… Armin Arlert—" _Armin stiffens._ "You're next!" _

The calliope music plays slow then lowers in pitch, as if someone is anticipating the surprise of a Jack-In-The-Box and has stopped winding the handle. Then the music breaks with a screech—starting back up twice as fast and played backwards; the peaks are where the drops should be as if the song has turned itself inside out. Deep and reverberating bells toll in the distance like an execution drum call.

Armin unfurls his wings and sees that Annie has done the same, also brandishing her angel blade. It shines like a wedge of moonlight in the night.

"We have to hide you," Annie says.

"I'm not the one they want," Armin tells her, with a slight shake of his head. "They're baiting Eren, and I think I know where he is."

_Mirrors._ The house of mirrors.


End file.
